
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

ChapJ?Z_3 Copyright No,. 

Shelf.j.C.Æi V 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 


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VICOMTE DE PUYJOLI 






















































































































































































































'* 













VICOMTE DE PUYJOLI 

A Romance of the French Revolution 


/ BY 

JULES CLARE TIE 


ENGLISHED BY EMMA M. PHELPS. 



R. F. FENNO & COMPANY, 9 and ii EAST 
SIXTEENTH STREET : NEW YORK CITY 
1899 

L 




Copyright, 1898 


BY 

R. F. FBNNO & COMPANY 


TWO CQP\ïà KECeiVED. 



Vicomte de Puyjoli. 


% 

^ Ci ^IV-D 


CONTENTS 


VOL. I. 

CHAP. PAGE 

I. “ Too Beautiful Puyjoli” 11 

II. The Loves of the Yiscount 25 

III. The Two Brothers 41 

IY. Citizen Pluche 54 

Y. The Girondins 64 

YI. Yincent Leroux 89 

YII. Puyjoli’ s Second of June * 96 

YIII. Gold 112 

IX. Three Women 122 

X. Through Paris 139 

XI. Rue Haute ville 149 

XII. Charles La Bussiere 160 

XIII. Clotilde 173 

VOL. II. 

THE NINTH OF THEEMIDOR. 

I. The Dinner at Citizen Pluche’ s 178 

IL Girondin and Royalist 190 

III. Germaine 202 

IY. Mademoiselle de Louverchal 214 

Y. A Drama at the Comedie 236 

YI. Puyjoli Seeks Thorel 245 

YII. Citizen La Bussière’s Plans 256 

Y III. Saint Lazare 267 

IX. The Red Mass 279 

X. The Tenth of Thermidor 283 














































































































































































































































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PREFACE. 


To Victorien Sardou. 

My Dear Friend, 

It is twenty years ago, perhaps even more — how 
time flies ! — since we, you and I, were walking one 
day from Saint-Germain to Marly le Roi, and as we 
walked we talked, do you remember ? And the 
subject of our conversation was a person long dead and 
forgotten — a person who had played a not ignoble 
part in the bloody drama of the Revolution. He was 
only a poor player ; nobody noticed him, yet (you said 
and truly) his should have been the applause, the glory 
given to others. When I say we talked, it was you 
who talked — ah, how eloquently ! — as we walked ; and 
the audiences which have with so much justice and dis- 
crimination applauded your work upon the stage, how 
much more would they have applauded had they been 
privileged to listen to you that day ! 

It was a pleasant road bordered by fragrant hedge- 
rows. The time of year was summer, and we were both 
young then. 

But why do I write ‘ then,’ you at least are young yet, 
and will never grow old, I think. 

And I flatter myself that if you and I were upon 
that same road to-day, we should step out as sturdily, 
7 


8 


Preface. 


our mirth and laughter would be as cheerful as it was 
then, twenty years ago. I seem, as I write this, to hear 
your voice as you talk of La Bussière. 

Of Charles de la Bussière, poor player of the Revolu- 
tion, whose courage, whose devotion to his fellow 
artists in the dark days of the Thermidor made of him 
a hero. And you told in confidence that you had 
serious thoughts of making him the hero of your next 
drama. 

Just then, however, a sudden shower obscured the sky. 
The rain fell in torrents, we had to run laughing to 
take refuge in a half-finished house at the foot of Monte 
Cristo. 

While the rain streamed down you went on with your 
narration. 

How eloquent your theme made you ! My attention 
never flagged, though the story was hardly done when 
we tramped into Marly. And the wonder of it all is that 
the tale was true, every word of it. 

This poor, impecunious devil of a strolling player 
did really at the risk of his own life save scores and 
scores of his more gifted colleagues from the guillotine. 

The Comédie Française should ever after have burnt 
a votive candle to his memory. 

I imagine, however, that the poor player really 
thought the distinguished company would, — as a re- 
ward, — open its ranks to him. 

Here, however, he made a mistake ; such a reward was 
not for him. The mountebank was never allowed to 
pose with the artists. 

After the dark days of the Terror had passed, the 
Journal des Débats printed an article eulogizing in 
its columns the service done by La Bussière for the 


Preface. 


9 

Comédie : — a benefit also was given him by the players 
whose lives he had saved. 

Hamlet was given on that occasion, followed by the 
Two Pages. It was the night of the 15th Germinal, 
year 9, April fifteenth, 1801. 

The First Consul condescended to occupy a box on 
that night, which, however, was only to be expected, per- 
haps, his consort, Josephine, having been one of those 
saved from death by La Bussière’s intervention. — Not 
content with protecting the mimic queens of the stage 
from death, La Bussière (think of it !) had managed to 
save the head of a future Empress of France from 
tumbling on the block. It was upon our excursion to 
Marly that, as I said before, you confided to me your 
intention of making of this man (who died poor and 
in a madhouse, — perhaps he had been a little mad all his 
life) the hero of a play you had then in your mind. 
He should, (you declared, and you have kept your 
word) have his triumph upon the stage of the Aca- 
démie. It is there La Bussière lives and breathes again 
to future generations. 

Thanks to you, he is rescued from forgetfulness and 
thankless oblivion. The poor player is known as the 
Hero that he was indeed. And I too, now many years 
later, lay a tiny leaf of laurel upon the tomb of La 
Bussière. 

In this book of mine I have not done him the justice 
he deserves. How it happened I do not know, but in 
Puyjoli he refused to take any other rôle than the sim- 
ple, humble one he acted when alive. It was you, the 
magician, who called him from the shades to my 
view. 

As I wrote the book, it seemed to me as though you 


10 


Preface. 


were again by my side, that we were youths and walk- 
ing together along the pleasant road toward Marly. 

Time passes, friendship endures. To-day in the rush 
and jostle of town life, in the midst of severe and en- 
grossing labours, our companionship is as pleasant as 
it was in the idle, careless summer days. 

Therefore it seems only meet and right to me that at 
the head of this book I inscribe your loved and honoured 
name. And permit me, I who so often with admiring 
crowds have applauded your written words upon the 
stage, to thank you for those spoken to me in private ; 
words which have inspired this tale. 

Words which I alone was privileged to hear and 
silently to applaud. 

Your devoted friend, 

Jules Claretie. 


VICOMTE DE P U Y JOLI. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ TOO BEAUTIFUL PUYJOLI.” 

This history opens a year or two before the breaking 
out of the French Revolution of 1789. 

Versailles at that time was regarded by the 
nobility as the Promised Land was probably regarded 
by the Israelites of old, and for a courtier to be invited 
by his master to take a seat with him in the royal coach, 
was looked upon as the summit of earthly felicity. 

It was a, time when all the clocks and watches 
throughout the kingdom were regulated by the tardy 
sundial in the garden at Trianon: a time when the 
nobles looked down upon the common people as the 
gods of old from secure Olympian heights gazed down 
upon their worshippers below. 

Perigueux in Périgord had then (like all other petty 
provincial towns) its court modelled after the greater 
one at Versailles. The nobles of Périgord, more- 
over, frivolous and short-sighted as their brothers of 
Paris, took no notice of the muttering and growling of 
the thunder of the approaching Revolution, which was 
soon to overwhelm them in its depths. This noble 
11 


12 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

society of Perigueux made itself, on the contrary, ex- 
tremely merry at the expense of one of its members. 

A young nobleman — Gaston, Viscount Puyjoli, whose 
only fault (a grave one, however, in the eyes of his 
contemporaries) was that he was really too beautiful, — 
beautiful as the day ! — as a summer’s day of blinding 
sunlight and bright blue sky : — sunlight too fierce and 
sky too dazzlingly blue make one long to have their 
brightness obscured by a gray cloud or two or tempered 
by a sudden shower of rain. 

Our poor Viscount ! His history, romantic and tragic, 
has become a legend of his native province, and the 
words “ Too beautiful Puyjoli ” have passed into a pro- 
verb. Certainly at the age of three-and-twenty Gaston 
de Puyjoli, though a brave and gallant youth enough, 
had at this time no other qualities to attract the eyes 
or draw the attention of detractors upon him but this 
transcendent, almost insolent, beauty. 

He had been the most beautiful infant. As a lad, 
with his pink cheeks, sparkling blue eyes and golden 
curls falling on his shoulders he had caused the Can- 
oness de Gignac to exclaim, when speaking of him — 
“ That boy is really too beautiful ; — he is beautiful as 
a ripe apple ! ” 

And the phrase stuck to him even now when he had 
become a man. 

The world of society in Perigueux laughed at it and 
repeated it. There was nothing else with which to re- 
proach him except this ridiculous prodigality of nature 
for which, after all, he was not to blame. But when a 
man is too handsome, he is ridiculous. 

Puyjoli, however, bore a name to which ridicule had 
never yet attached itself. He was the second son of 


“ Too Beautiful Puyjoli.” 13 

the Count Monpazier who, since the death of his wife, 
had resided with the elder son in Paris. 

The birth of Puyjoli had cost his mother her life, and 
the Count, who adored his wife, could never look upon 
the child without being reminded of her loss. He had 
been confided from his earliest infancy to the care of the 
Dowager Marchioness de Trémolat, his maternal grand- 
mother, who adored and spoiled him. 

“ You are really too beautiful, Gaston,” she would 
say, pressing her lips on the lad’s fresh pink cheeks. 

When in addition to a beauty so remarkable one adds 
a bashfulness almost overpowering, it will be seen that 
this gift of prodigal Nature to him was not at all appre- 
ciated by the recipient of it. 

To know that the moment one puts one’s foot out of 
doors the eyes of all the passers-by will be fastened on 
one with an admiration as undesired as embarrassing — 
it was really torture to the poor lad. He therefore de- 
cided at a very early age to abjure the society of his 
kind entirely. To lead a life of seclusion, surrounded 
by his dogs, whose big, faithful, brown eyes gazed upon 
him with a love unmingled with unwelcome admira- 
tion. 

He was, however, not allowed to carry out this plan 
of his. The Marchioness insisted upon her grandson’s 
taking his place in the society to which rank and name 
entitled him. 

On his very first appearance in it, moreover, he fell 
in love — in love suddenly but irremediably — absolutely, 
madly in love at the very first sight of the beloved 
object. 

Mademoiselle de Louverchal, the object of this pas- 
sion of the Viscount’s, was the daughter of a nobleman 


14 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

living at an hôtel a short distance from that of Ma- 
dame de Trêmolat ! 

She was a small, Grenze-like type of beauty, with 
saucy, red lips, blue eyes, rather scornful, and a nose 
tip-tilted like a flower. Gaston found her irresistible. 
The very day after meeting her he confided his passion 
for her to his grandmother, and his intention to marry 
her if possible. 

“ Oh, oh,” laughed the old lady, “ but you have lost 
no time in falling in love, Gaston, my dear.” 

It was not the day after meeting her exactly, but 
still very soon afterward, that Piyjoli determined 
to ask Mademoiselle de Louverchal’s hand of her 
father. 

With the desperate courage of a timid man, he set 
out at once on his errand. Dressed in a rich suit of silk 
and velvet, a plumed cap on his golden curls, a sword 
jangling at his side, Gaston was indeed a superb appari- 
tion. The distance between the two houses was not a 
long one ; long enough, however, for him to encounter 
several pedestrians whose audible comments (flattering 
though they were) on his appearance materially dis- 
turbed his equanimity. 

Quickening his footsteps to avoid hearing them, he 
arrived in front of the Hôtel Louverchal sooner than he 
anticipated. Fixing his eyes on the knocker and lower- 
ing his eyelids as would a man about plunging over a 
precipice, Gaston gave a knock loud enough to waken 
the dead. 

In reply to this imperative summons the door opened 
directly, and a footman, seeing it was the Viscount, 
saluted him with a low bow and a grin of welcome. 

“ Ah— tê, Monsieur le Vicomte,” exclaimed the man 


“ Too Beautiful Puyjoli.” 15 

— “ Pardon me, but bow fast your lordship must have 
come hither.” 

Gaston looked at the man with a blank, unseeing 
gaze ; then, as one speaking in a dream, he asked if the 
Marquis were visible. 

“ O — tê ! To you, Monsieur le Vicomte, always.” 

Puyjoli felt his heart literally leaping up into his 
throat. How it beat — this poor timid heart. He had 
half a mind to turn about and run home again. To de- 
clare his hopes, to confess his love — eh, malepeste ! but 
the task would be a difficult one. He began to wish that 
the Marquis had not been visible to him. 

“ I go to announce M. le Vicomte to M. le Marquis,” 
said the lackey. 

Left alone, Puyjoli’s eyes wandered around the room 
into which the footman had shown him. He fell back 
slightly on perceiving on an easel just in front of him 
a pastel portrait of Mademoiselle de Louverchal in all 
the fresh beauty of her eighteen years. The colours, 
already a little faded, gave to the face of the portrait an 
expression of soft and tender melancholy, quite foreign 
to the original. 

Bertha smiled and dreamed at the same moment. 
The eyes were smiling and mischievous, but the red lips 
were serious. Gaston gazed at the portrait with rapture 
— passionate, audacious rapture, for even the most 
timid lover could hardly be expected to feel abashed 
before a portrait. 

Then, emboldened by the thought that he was quite 
alone with this charming image of his love, he ventured 
to send a kiss from the tips of his fingers toward the 
picture, a salute which the portrait received without a 
frown. 


i6 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

Hardly, however, had the Viscount been guilty of this 
act of audacity when the door opened and the Marquis 
entered, exclaiming : — 

“ Ah, good day, Viscount. What a delightful sur- 
prise to see you at this hour ! ” 

Gaston bowed, took the chair pointed out to him by 
the Marquis and sat twirling his plumed hat in his 
fingers like a tenant, behindhand with his rent, before his 
landlord. 

A pause ensued. 

M. de Louverchal, who was still in his morning cos- 
tume, a flowered dressing-gown, began to excuse it, to 
talk of the weather, of the news of Paris, of the recent 
convocation of the States General, of Mirabeau, who had 
just published a number of incendiary pamphlets, there- 
by causing his worthy father, author of “ L’Ami des 
Hommes,” and who was a friend, if you please, of 
his (M. de Louverchal), a great deal of dissatisfac- 
tion. 

And all the while he was pouring out these phrases 
the Marquis was puzzling his brains as to what could 
be the object of Puyjoli’s visit. 

Puyjoli, poor fellow, in his turn, had never felt him- 
self so miserable, so unhappy, as at this moment. He 
endeavoured to speak, but the words died away in his 
throat, contracted by terror. He endeavoured to smile, 
but by means of a mirror directly in front of him he 
could see plainly the nervous grin which distorted his 
visage, scarlet with embarrassment. Worse than all 
this, he absolutely felt the tears rising to his eyes, and 
was filled with alarm at the thought that he might sud- 
denly burst out crying then and there before the Mar- 
quis’s face. 


“ Too Beautiful Puyjoli.” 17 

A window looking out on the street was open. For 
one brief moment Puyjoli thought in his desperation of 
jumping out of it. M. de Louverchal, however, came 
unconsciously to his aid by asking him politely the 
object of his visit. 

By a supreme effort of self-control, the Viscount 
found himself able to reply to this interrogation, and 
with the precipitancy of water flowing out of an over- 
turned bottle, all his hopes and wishes came pouring 
forth. 

He loved Mademoiselle de Louverchal — had loved 
her from the first moment he set eyes upon her ; 
loved her sincerely, deeply. He was aware that she 
was an heiress, but he too, as the heir of Madame de 
Trémolat, would one day be the possessor of a fortune 
still greater than hers. She was noble, but the Mopazi- 
ers were not less so. In short — here M. de Louverchal 
interrupted the suitor, the sight of whose face, red with 
emotion, caused the Marquis to feel as though he were 
sitting opposite a lighted brazier. 

“ In short, my dear Viscount, I am immensely flat- 
tered by your proposal for my daughter’s hand, but the 
acceptance of it remains with her. She has a will of 
her own, I am sorry to say. If you like, I will speak 
to her, or here in your presence I will acquaint her with 
the proposal you have done her the honour to make 
her.” 

“ Speak to her now and in my presence, if you please, 
Monsieur le Marquis,” replied Gaston, quickly, with the 
blind courage of a bashful yet desperate lover, wishing 
to endure everything but suspense. 

The Marquis rang for a footman, and sent for his 
daughter. 

2 


1 8 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

She appeared directly, beautiful and smiling, and 
curtsied saucily to Puyjoli. On her father’s acquaint- 
ing her with the object of the Viscount’s visit to them, 
she began to laugh. Yes, to laugh, and to laugh loud 
and long. Gaston de Puyjoli was confounded at this 
behaviour. He was no longer red ; he grew so pale that 
the Marquis, ashamed of his daughter, remonstrated 
with her gravely. 

“ Bertha, my child, what does this mean ! Have you 
lost your senses suddenly?” But it was no easy mat- 
ter to drive the laughter away from the lips of a petted 
beauty of eighteen. 

At last, however, Mademoiselle de Louverchal 
deigned to explain the cause of her merriment. 

She exhausted herself in excuses. Monsieur le 
Vicomte must pardon her — but. it was not her fault at 
all. It was all the fault of the Canon ess of Gignac. 
Why had the Canoness ventured to compare M. de 
Puyjoli, to a fruit? to an apple? An apple, or was it a 
nectarine ? As if one could marry a nectarine ! 

“ You must pardon me, Monsieur le Vicomte,” she 
added, “ but I cannot marry you. Beside you I should 
certainly look ugly. You are too beautiful.” Here she 
began to laugh again. 

“ Too beautiful, Puyjoli ! ” exclaimed the Marquis. 
“ A rejection could not be couched in terms more 
flattering.” 

But the Viscount had never before in his whole life 
fejt so deeply humiliated and mortified. He gazed 
boldly into the face of his pretty tormentor, and he, the 
bashful suitor, exclaimed brutally, to the astonishment 
of both father and daughter, 

“Very well, Mademoiselle, I must, perforce, accept 


“ Too Beautiful Puyjoli. 


19 


your refusal now, but I swear to you that one day you 
shall yet be mine. In a year, or ten, at Paris or Peri- 
gueuxor Peking — it matters not where — you shall some 
day be mine.” 

Then, bowing low and turning on his high red heels, 
he abruptly left the room. 

Oh, the temerity of this timid, bashful lover! At 
this moment, Gaston de Puyjoli was in a state to draw 
his sword single-handed against lions. 

“ ‘ Too beautiful, too beautiful,”’ he muttered through 
his clenched teeth, as he strode rapidly back to the 
Hôtel de Trémolat. 

“ Is it my fault ? ” he inquired later of his grand- 
mother on telling her of his proposal to Bertha and her 
scornful rejection of it. “ Is it my fault that that 
detestable phrase of the Canoness is to cling to me 
for ever? Mangrebleu ! — humanity in general is quite 
ugly enough to satisfy the pious lady.” 

Puyjoli had another auditor at this interview with 
his grandmother. A young girl, Clotilde Ponyade 
by name, who was being educated and brought up at 
Trémolat. 

Clotilde’s father, Sergeant Ponyade, had accompanied 
Gerard de Monpazier to America, and been killed in 
battle there. He had in fact given his life for his lord, 
receiving in his own breast the point of the bayonet 
aimed at Gérard’s. 

“ He died nobly” the Dowager was wont to say, with 
an emphasis on the last word. 

After Ponyade’s death the Marchioness had taken his 
sister and child under her roof. On the death of the 
aunt, Clotilde had been adopted by the noble lady. A 
sum had been put aside for her by the Marchioness as a 


20 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

marriage dowry. Clotilde was a few years older than 
Gaston, whom she looked upon almost as her brother. 

When he had finished his narrative, this young lady, 
like Bertha a few hours before, began in her turn to 
laugh heartily. 

“ My dear Gaston,” she said soon after, “ you should 
teach this scornful coquette a lesson. She has neither 
sense nor heart enough to understand or appreciate you ; 
but you will not do it. You will not return her scorn 
by an indifference she would find harder to endure than 
anger. You are not only ‘too beautiful,’ my poor 
Gaston, you are too kind, too magnanimous.” 

It was now Puyjoli’s turn to laugh. Too beautiful, 
too kind, too magnanimous. Really, these eulogies of 
him were preposterous. 

Afterward, however, on thinking them over, Clo- 
tilde’s words struck him more seriously. Was he too 
easy and careless in his intercourse with those about 
him ? Did they despise him for his good-nature as well 
as for his good-looks ? 

Well, nature had not left him unprovided with teeth 
and claws. He made up his mind in the future to de- 
fend himself with these weapons. He set himself from 
that day to conquer his timidity, his bashfulness, his 
easy good-nature, which made him dislike to hurt or 
pain any living creature, as he would have set about 
training a dog to point for partridges. 

He cultivated a cold, reserved demeanour in society. 
He used his tongue to defend himself as a sharp sword 
might have done. His acquaintances had chosen to 
make merry over his beauty ; very well, then, he for 
his part would show them that he found their lack of 
this quality as ridiculous. 


“Too Beautiful Puyjoli.” 21 

However, though the inhabitants of the provinces 
were quite ignorant as yet of it, the Revolution, long 
smouldering, now broke out in Paris. 

Just about this time Gaston de Puyjoli had a chance 
to prove to his scornful mistress that, although he was 
unfortunately possessed of that not-to-be-desired gift in 
a man, beauty, he was not lacking in those more-to-be- 
desired qualities, strength and courage. 

Riding one day, accompanied only by her groom, 
Bertha’s horse took fright suddenly and ran away with 
her. She would have been dashed to death against a 
tree if Puyjoli, just at that moment, like a veritable hero 
of romance, had not appeared from behind it, and, catch- 
ing her horse by the bridle after a short but sharp 
struggle succeeded in subduing the frightened animal. 

It was well and gallantly done, and Bertha could 
not refuse a word of thanks to her preserver. 

“ How you conquered the brute,” she murmured, 
with lips still white with terror. 

“ I have succeeded, since I saw you, in subduing some- 
thing much more formidable,” he answered, smiling. 

“ And that is ” 

“ My own timidity.” 

The Marquis was exceedingly grateful to Gaston for 
saving the life of his daughter. 

“ Cannot you succeed in making up j T our mind to 
marry him now ? ” he inquired anxiously of her, when 
told of the occurrence. 

“ Marry whom ? ” 

“ Gaston, the saviour of your life.” 

Bertha’s pretty face clouded suddenly. With red, 
pouting lips she answered quickly: 

“ No — no — no, decidedly no. He is too beautiful.” 


22 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ I will wait for lier,” replied Puyjoli, phlegmatically, 
to whom the Marquis had the. fatuity to repeat this 
conversation. “ You know I will wait for her — ten 
years if necessary.” He had, it appears, already waited 
two. 

One evening, some weeks after, Clotilde Ponyade, in 
the course of conversation happened to say in Gaston’s 
presence that there had been uprisings and rioting 
among the peasants in the neighbourhood of Sainte-Foy 
de Longas, an estate of M. de Louverchal’s, where he 
and his daughter were at present living. 

Gaston immediately set out for Sainte-Foy de Longas, 
first taking the precaution to hang his pistols on the 
pommel of his saddle. 

He arrived at the village just as a crowd of angry 
peasants, on coming out of church, had surrounded the 
Marquis and his daughter. Many voices among the 
crowd accused him of hiding away the wheat harvested 
the previous year, an act of which de Louverchal, be it 
remarked, was quite incapable. He was a selfish and 
indolent man, but not in any way a cruel one. It is 
possible, however, that his steward had been guilty of 
the deed of which the famished peasants accused their 
lord. The tone of the crowd was growing every mo- 
ment more dangerous and menacing when suddenly, as 
though he had dropped from the sky above their heads, 
Gaston de Puyjoli appeared, spurring his horse among 
the forest of sticks and the showers of pebbles and 
small stones which fell thick around the Marquis and 
his daughter. 

Bertha, pale but resolute, had placed herself in front 
of her father, interposing her body as a shield to keep 
the missiles off him. 


“ Too Beautiful Puyjoli. 


Pu}^joli forced his horse into the angry crowd, flour- 
ishing his pistols and shouting at the top of his lungs, 

“ Back, back, all of you — or I fire ! ” His appearance, 
beautiful and menacing as an avenging angel, awed the 
peasants in spite of themselves. He was, besides, well 
known and liked by them as a bountiful and generous 
Sieur. They dispersed at once with cheers for the 
seigneur Puyjoli. The Viscount returned with the 
Marquis and his daughter to their château. 

Afterward, when alone in the drawing-room with 
Puyjoli and his daughter, the Marquis exclaimed : 

“You must, I think, confess yourself vanquished, 
Bertha. You can no longer refuse to marry the Vis- 
count, my child.” 

Bertha remained silent, but Puyjoli answered for her 
smiling : — 

“ Mademoiselle need not hurry herself. In a year 
or ” 

Bertha interrupted him pettishly. 

“ Excuse us, Viscount, we know the rest by heart.” 

“I think, Gaston,” said the Marquis, when Bertha 
had retired, leaving the two together, “ that was rather 
a blundering speech of yours — that assertion that you 
were in no hurry to marry her.” 

“ Ah,” exclaimed Puyjoli, “ how could she and you 
have misunderstood me so completely ? ” 

The years which followed seemed to Puyjoli to pass 
with frightful rapidity. In times of Revolution, one 
lives fast. Stormy days always appear the shortest. 

However, by this time Gaston had left Perigueux to 
follow Mademoiselle de Louverchal and her father to 
Paris. 

The old Marchioness de Trémolat and his father were 


24 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

both now dead. Except Gerard de Monpazier, his 
brother, whom he met at Paris on his arrival there, the 
young man was quite alone in the world. 

His beauty and his wealth insured his success in the 
gay world of Paris — gay, in spite of the protests, loud 
and discordant as they were to the ears of their lords 
and masters, of an oppressed and starving people. 

“ This Puyjoli,” exclaimed one day one of the ac- 
tresses at the “ Comédie,” makes no use at all of his 
beauty. He lets himself be gulled and cheated by us 
as though he were old and ugly. There is, too, some- 
thing exasperating about his beauty. Ours is really 
cast into the shade by it.” 

Thus the days went by ; Puyjoli wasting his time 
and his money on some beauty of the hour, as frail and 
faithless, as fair. 

The memory of Bertha’s lovely face was, however, 
never absent from him ; the sound of her silvery laugh 
echoed ever in his ears, and often he exclaimed, 

“Ah, well, whether she will or not, some day she 
shall be mine.” 


The Loves of the Viscount. 


25 


CHAPTER II. 

THE LOVES OF THE VISCOUNT, 

Duking this time of feverish and anxious waiting for 
Mademoiselle de Louverchal to smile upon his wooing, 
truth compels us to say that Puyjoli permitted himself 
some distractions ; nor was he above resisting the pleasant 
temptations which in Paris assail on every side a noble- 
man young, rich and superbly handsome. 

His love for Bertha was his one and only passion, but 
while waiting for her to return it, he amused himself 
with other fair ones neither so coquettish nor so disdain- 
ful. 

He had, also, though quite unknown to himself, 
inspired a deep and fervent affection in the heart of a 
good and modest girl, the daughter of a draper, with 
whom an accident had brought him in contact. 

One day, sauntering about the precincts of the Champs 
de Mars, Puyjoli was suddenly made aware that some- 
thing out of the common was going on about him. It 
was, in fact, the day on which Lafayette and Bailly had 
ordered the street to be swept down by grape-shot 
as a means of dispersing the populace which had given 
signs of rioting and turbulence. There was a great rush 
of the crowd to save itself, and a young girl, accompa- 
nied by a much older woman, found themselves in 
the midst of it, in danger of being thrown down and 


26 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

trampled upon. Puyjoli had come gallantly to the 
rescue, throwing an arm round the waist of each of them. 
By sturdy elbowing, he had succeeded in pushing 
through the crowd and turning down a side street. 

It was an act of pure humanity on his part, and he 
had no idea with what feelings of admiration and grati- 
tude the girl regarded her rescuer. 

“ Destiny seems to will,” he thought laughingly to 
himself, “ that I shall be a squire of dames. If I had 
been born three hundred years ago, I should in all 
probability have been a knight-errant.” 

He accompanied the girl and her companion to the 
former’s house in the Rue du Mail. The girl he noticed, 
was beautiful, but not with the gay espièglerie beauty 
of Mademoiselle de Louverchal ; there was something 
pensive, almost saint-like, about her. 

On arriving at the draper’s shop, they found the 
master of it, Vincent Leroux, absent, but Germaine in- 
sisted on Gaston’s coming the next day to receive her 
father’s thanks for the service rendered her. 

And Gaston went, partly out of idleness, partly out 
of curiosity. The draper, ardent Republican though he 
was, could not help expressing his gratitude to the ci- 
devant who had saved his daughter from being trampled 
on and crushed to death by the mob. 

Puyjoli came soon to be a frequent visitor at the shop 
in the Rue du Mail, attracted thither by the admiration 
and esteem he felt for Germaine. 

Accustomed to the facile admiration of the ladies of 
the theatre, he was yet ignorant of the fact that he might, 
quite unconsciously, excite in the bosom of this lovely 
girl a passion as deep and far more hopeless than that 
cherished by him for his disdainful mistress. 


The Loves of the Viscount. 27 

A feeling of profound pity for Germaine, compelled by 
cruel fate to hide her loveliness and waste her youth 
in the gloomy recesses of a dingy, dark shop, in the 
companionship of a father rude and brusque of manner 
and speech, even toward an only and beloved child, 
took possession of him. 

Vincent 'Leroux had only of late grown morose 
and savage in his demeanour toward everyone. This 
change in him was, moreover, due to most untoward 
and unfortunate circumstances. 

The draper, who but a few years back had been in 
easy circumstances, now saw ruin staring him in the 
face. Since the Revolution his trade had fallen off 
materially, and a silk firm in Lyons, for which he had 
been agent, had failed, greatly in debt to him. Vin- 
cent, who had sought to retrieve his losses by specula- 
tion, had been unlucky in his ventures. 

Leroux was now fifty years of age — a strong, ro- 
bust, florid man, of a temperament at once violent and 
sanguine. He had adored his wife, and now that she 
was dead he worshipped his daughter. For Germaine, 
he would say laughingly, he would be willing to up- 
heave a mountain or commit a murder. No girl in 
Paris was her equal, thought this fond father. 

Where in all Paris could one find a girl at once so 
beautiful and self-sacrificing ? His anguish of mind 
was great, almost intolerable, at the thought that this 
exquisite creature was in all probability condemned to 
a life of bitter, hopeless poverty and sour celibacy. 

Germaine, in her turn, returned with ardour her 
father’s affection. To her he was always kind and 
gentle, however violent he might be to others. She 
knew besides, and only too well, the difficulties which 


28 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

beset him. It was she who kept the books and had 
charge of his correspondence. How many letters she 
had had to write to importunate creditors, praying them 
to have patience, explaining, promising, beseeching. 
Her father’s whole frame had been shaken by emotion, 
his voice choked with impotent rage, as he dictated them. 

Germaine, raising her eyes furtively from her paper 
to look at him, would see that his florid face had turned 
purple, that great drops of sweat stood on his forehead, 
that he drove the nails of one hand deep into the palm 
of the other. How he suffered, how he writhed with 
rage and shame, this dear father of hers, and she his 
child was powerless to assuage his agony. 

If the draper had only understood how to make friends 
when his business was prosperous they would perhaps 
have come to his aid now ; but Leroux had really only 
one intimate friend, and this friend was a young man, 
and not a rich one nor a merchant. 

André Thorel, this friend of Leroux’s, was a member 
of the National Convention. Leroux had made his ac- 
quaintance when Thorel was an advocate of the Parlia- 
ment. He had won a suit for the draper, and the two 
had since struck up an intimacy. Thorel was, however, 
a much too moderate Republican to suit his former 
client. He was a Girondin of the party Roland and 
Brissot belonged to, while Leroux was an ardent Jaco- 
bin. Had not it been for his daughter, who dissuaded 
him from taking part in politics, he would have been 
one of the leaders of the Mountain. Vincent told him- 
self that, if he had been ambitious, he too, like Thorel, 
could have played a rôle in the drama of the Revolution 
just beginning. But no, all he wished after all, was to 
work, to regain his fortune, to be able to give a dowry 


The Loves of the Viscount. 


29 


to his daughter on her marriage. When Thorel’s wife 
said, smilingly, one day to him, “We must marry her 
off soon,” Leroux experienced a sensation of bitter 
agony in hearing Germaine reply gently in answer, 

“ I do not wish to marry ; I wish to remain always 
with my father.” 

In these days of torture, finding himself ruined, after 
a life of honest labour, Vincent Leroux would have 
committed suicide had not it been for his daughter, 
flad not it been that by this act of his she would have 
been rendered more desolate, more forsaken, he would 
have blown out his brains and ended it long ago. 

The spectre of bankruptcy haunted the unhappy man 
continually. Neither day nor night was he free from 
it. Puyjoli, in his frequent visits to the shop, could 
hardly help perceiving this trouble of the draper’s and 
divining the cause of it. 

He perceived that some misfortune menaced Leroux 
and his daughter, and it was partly in the hope of be- 
ing of assistance to them that his visits to the Rue du 
Mail were so frequent. 

Ah, if Leroux had only thought to make a confidant 
of the viscount, or if the latter had had the courage to 
seek his confidence all might have been well. 

Puyjoli would have joyfully assisted the unhappy 
father of Germaine, even to the extent of half his for- 
tune ; but Leroux never thought of looking for help 
from an aristocrat, and Gaston’s sense of delicacy pre- 
vented his offering it unsought. 

Then, too, Leroux had small love for this gallant who 
honoured the shop with his frequent visits. When a 
man was as beautiful as this ci-devant Viscount, he was 
ridiculous, he told himself, 


30 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

Destiny, as ironical as ever, pursued Puyjoli to the 
draper’s shop. One morning Leroux had discovered 
Germaine holding in her hand, and looking fondly down 
at a little nosegay of violets which Gaston had brought 
her, and it seemed to the anxious eyes of her father that 
his daughter had grown paieras well as more silent and 
absent of late. 

It was time, he told himself, to give this citizen-vis- 
count his congé. Though his girl was too poor to marry 
probably, she should at least be no one’s mistress. 
“ He shall not cross my threshold again, this ci-devant , 
with his golden hair and pink cheeks like a girl’s. It 
is as a seducer, certainly, that he prowls about my 
dwelling.” 

Leroux kept the promise he made to himself. Puy- 
joli was made to understand with small ceremony that 
his visits to the shop in the Rue du Mail were not de- 
sired. When in obedience to this request of her father’s, 
Puyjoli saw Germaine no longer, he was to find how 
dear the society and companionship of this girl had 
grown to him. 

In the feverish atmosphere of Paris, the quiet of that 
dingy old shop reminded him of the dim old drawing- 
room at Perigueux, and the quiet hours he had passed 
there in company with the Marchioness and her ward. 
But, after all, Leroux was right, Puyjoli admitted to him- 
self afterwards, in forbidding him his house. Germaine 
he admired and esteemed certainly, but his whole heart 
belonged to Bertha, and his intimacy with the former 
would only expose her to the censure of the envious. 

But, though the Viscount’s heart was constant in its 
affection toward Bertha, he had not hesitated, while 
waiting for her to accept him, to take under his pro tec- 


The Loves of the Viscount. 31 

tion the beautiful Sophie Clerval, the most charming of 
all the actresses of the Comédie Française. Certainly 
there could hardly be a creature more bewitching than 
Sophie — tall, slender, with shoulders Madame du Barry 
herself might have envied, laughing blue eyes, red 
pouting lips and the whitest teeth imaginable, she was 
indeed adorable. 

Puyjoli was the. envy of all the young men of his ac- 
quaintance. He, however, felt but a languid liking for 
the actress who adored him. He would in fact have 
quitted Paris long before if Bertha and her father had 
not remained there. 

The Marquis de Louverchal lived shut up in his hôtel 
in the Chausée d ’Antin like a rabbit crouching in its 
burrow, not venturing even to pack up his trunks and 
flee to London or Kelil. He never went out. He spoke 
little and ate less, cautioning each morning Bonnemain, 
his porter, who was as timid as his master, to make as 
little noise in going about his daily duties as possible. 

It was the desire of the Marquis that the hôtel should 
have the appearance of being unoccupied, and the 
frequent visits of Puyjoli terrified him not a little. 

Mademoiselle de Louverchal, however, was as smiling 
and unconcerned as ever. Looking upon the Revolu- 
tion as a revolt which would be quelled by the nobles 
eventually, she was not at all displeased at these visits 
of her suitor’s, though she replied to all his vows and 
protestations with the words, 

“ No, — no, Viscount. It is really too absurd of you 
to want to marry me. You are not at all disagreeable 
to me, — but — ” and her pretty eyes rested saucily on the 
panel of the door on which some flowers and fruits were 
painted, and the words of the Canoness of Gignac rang 


32 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

again in Puyjoli’s burning ears — “ Beautiful as a ripe 
apple.” 

He did not permit her to finish her sentence. 

“ \^ery well — I can wait for you,” he would say in the 
tone of a man not at all in a hurry. 

“ Really, Monsieur,” Bertha answered, “ do you 
know that your patience strikes one as rather im- 
pertinent? ” But she laughed as she spoke, not at all 
displeased with her suitor’s pertinacity. 

These visits to Bertha, the coquetries of Sophie, the 
recollection of those quiet, peaceful hours spent so hap- 
pily in Germaine’s society, did not prevent the young 
man from feeling at times intolerably lonely in Paris, 
which nearly all of his friends and companions had by 
this time deserted, fleeing from the turbulent city like 
a flock of frightened partridges. 

The days were intolerably dull and tedious to him. 
One morning, while strolling on the Terrace of the 
Feuillants, a young woman who was passing, after look- 
ing at him a moment, stopped short and holding out 
her hand to him exclaimed, 

“ Monsieur le Vicomte ! ” 

Puyjoli stared at her in astonishment ; foj months now, 
no one had used his title in addressing him. Immedi- 
ately after, however, lie exclaimed joyfully, 

“ What, Clotilde — you here in Paris ? ” 

A great flood of joy filled his heart. It was as though 
an apparition of his happy childhood had suddenly 
appeared before him. 

As young, as handsome, as débonaire as in those far- 
off happy, careless days, Puyjoli stood there before the 
friend of his childhood. 

“ What a fortunate, what a delightful thing it is to 


The Loves of the Viscount. 33 

see you here. But why have you left Perigueux for 
Paris? Paris is just now no place for a woman like 
you, Clotilde.” 

“ L” she returned, with a toss of her pretty head, 
“ have come here to meet somebody.” 

“ Indeed — your sweetheart ? ” 

She held up her left hand. Through the black lace 
mitten, the glitter of a wedding-ring was visible. 

“ Married ! ” exclaimed Puyjoli, “And I not told of 
it? Does your husband live in Paris ?” 

She pointed toward the Tuileries. 

“ He is there.” 

“Where?” 

“He is a member of the National Convention.” 

Puyjoli’s face, hitherto so smiling, lengthened. 

“ You must know him — André Thorel, a member of 
the Gironde.” 

“ Ah,” he returned, coldly and absently. He had a 
faint recollection of having heard Thorel’s name men- 
tioned in the foyers of the Comédie, of having met with 
it in some of the newspapers. Possibly in the Gazette 
National of M. Panckouke. 

The name at another time would have grated on his 
ears, but just at present his delight at this unexpected 
meeting with his old playmate left no room for sensa- 
tions less agreeable. 

“ Republican, is not he ? ” he inquired, in a tone so 
hesitating that Clotilde could not help being struck by it. 

“ A Girondin,” she answered. 

“Well, Gironde is not a thousand leagues away from 
Périgord,” he answered, not at all knowing what to 
say. 

He could not help noticing, however, that he and Clo- 

3 


34 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

tilde were attracting the attention of the passers- 
by ; as they stood there conversing some women of the 
people stopped and looked back curiously at them. 

“ What in Heaven’s name possessed you to marry a 
politician, Clotilde ? If Thorel had not been a Republi- 
can — a member of the Convention — you could have 
presented him to me.” 

“ I should be happy to present you to Thorel when- 
ever you please,” she returned quickly. 

“ It seems,” thought Gaston, “ that times are chang- 
ing with a vengeance. These Republicans present us 
now, and we are presented to them” But he did not 
speak his thought. 

“ Gaston,” said Clotilde, solemnly, laying her hand 
on one of his, “ If your life should ever be in danger, 
remember with my husband and me you can always find 
a refuge.” 

“Thank you,” he returned, rather coldly, “but I 
have already been fortunate enough to find a friend 
who has made me the same offer.” 

“ In no other house in Paris could you be as safe as 
in ours.” 

“ Possibly; but then, you see, I have already prom- 
ised Pluche, the prompter of the Comédie Française, 
to come to him for shelter when my head is in danger — 
thus ” 

“ Two places of refuge are, after all, better than one,” 
returned Clotilde, “and in the member of the National 
Convention you will probably find a more powerful 
friend and advocate than the prompter, Gaston. Our 
house is in the Rue des Vieux Augustins ; any one can 
direct you to it.” 

“ Thank you,” replied Gaston listlessly. 


The Loves of the Viscount. 35 

“ Besides,” added Clotilde, “ you should become 
acquainted with my husband if only for your brother’s 
sake. He and André are old acquaintances— school 
friends.” 

“ Monpazier a friend of your husband’s ? ” 

“ They were pupils together at the college at Har- 
court. They were friends and comrades there.” 

“Your husband has been more fortunate than I,” 
returned Puyjoli, gravely. “ Hardly had I become 
acquainted with my brother when he was obliged to 
take his departure from Paris. I regret this the more, 
for he is the only being in the whole world besides 
yourself, who cares anything at all about me.” 

Clotilde began to laugh softly. 

“ And she ” 

Puyjoli grew as red as on the day when for the first 
time, at Perigueux, he found himself in the presence of 
the Marquis de Louverchal. 

“Is she as disdainful as ever — the little Marchion- 
ess?” inquired Clotilde. 

He tossed back his head. 

“ Oh,” he answered, “ what Puyjoli wills, fate wills. 
She will be mine some day. In a year or ten, at Paris 
or at Peking, some day I shall claim Mademoiselle de 
Louverchal for my own.” 

“ Really,” exclaimed Clotilde, smiling ; “ well, you 
are a lover indeed.” 

Though Puyjoli would have liked to detain her 
longer to hear more about his brother, it was evident 
Clotilde was in a hurry to leave him. And in truth 
the curious gaze of the passers-by grew every moment 
more annoying. 

Puyjoli took the hand the young woman held out in 


36 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

adieu to him, seemed for a moment about to raise it to 
his lips, but remembering suddenly that this form of 
salutation had gone out of fashion with the monarchy, 
he pressed the slender fingers warmly instead. 

“ Au revoir,” said Clotilde, drawing her hand away 
gently. She went away quickly, going towards the 
hall where the Convention was sitting, in haste, evi- 
dently, to meet her husband, who would be quitting it 
presently. 

Puyjoli gazed after her rapidly-disappearing figure, 
and was surprised at finding that his sight was dimmed 
by the tears which had rushed suddenly into his eyes. 
He had had no idea until then how dear his childhood’s 
playmate was to him. 

And so she was married, and to one of those red- 
capped patriots of Paris. Here, however, Gaston re- 
called with pleasure that, Republican or not, Thorel had 
been a devoted friend of his brother. “ How odd things 
turn out,” he mused. “Well, I shall certainly go and 
see this Girondin, if for no other reason than that he 
was once Gérard’s friend. But, ugh ! how could Gerard 
be the friend of a Red Republican ? ” 

Monpazier, or, better still, Thorel, could have ex- 
plained how the two had come to strike up an intimacy. 
Monpazier, who was a count — Count Gérard Claude 
Marie de Monpazier — as his tutor was used to speak of 
him respectful^, — and André Thorel, already at six- 
teen or seventeen years of age had been Republicans, 
made so by much study of the works of Tacitus and 
Suetonius. Ah, those happy days of old, when the two 
youths, the patrician and the plebeian, were quite insep- 
arable. Would Thorel ever forget them, or the time 
when he was invited by Gêrard’s father to spend the 


The Loves of the Viscount. 37 

holidays with his son, or the courtly bearing of the old 
noble toward his youthful guest? for the Count, a 
nobleman of liberal philosophical tendencies, had not 
failed to teach his son that nobility of soul was of more 
worth than that of birth. 

After leaving college, Gérard de Monpazier had left 
France to fight under Rochambeau in America, had, 
with the down scarcely visible on his upper lip, assisted 
at the capitulation of Cornwallis at York town, return- 
ing to France again, his soul on fire with admiration of 
Washington, and the Republic he had helped to found 
across the sea. At this time the nobleman and the 
commoner marched in politics almost side by side. 
Both longed and wished to see France free. 

The old Count died shortly after his son’s return, 
and Gérard was now the head of the family. Of his 
young brother down in Périgord he knew little, until 
he was surprised one morning by a visit from the 
cadet at his hôtel in Paris. Young, gay, astonishingly 
beautiful, Puyjoli had come down from Perigueux to 
Paris at the heels of Mademoiselle de Louverchal. 
Monpazier, in speaking of his brother to Thorel after- 
wards, thus described him : 

“A boy, Thorel, a handsome, thoughtless lad. You 
never in your whole life saw such a good-looking 
fellow. But he cares about nothing but taking his 
pleasure.” 

“ Like the gentlemen of the old régime,” returned 
Thorel, “ while you, you see, are a man of the present.” 

« He is a gentleman, whether of the old or new régime 
I do not know, but a gentleman, certainly,” returned 
Gérard, with a w T armth so unexpected it astonished 
his interlocutor. 


38 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

That was in ’89, however ; since then, fate had sent 
Montpazier and Thorel on different ways. It had made 
of the stationer’s son one of the rulers of France, and 
of the nobleman’s an émigré. 

An émigré not from fear, but disgust and weariness, 
Montpazier had desired an evolution , not a revolution of 
things in France, and the reality of the present had dis- 
pelled his dreams of the future. He was one of those 
who would have liked to regenerate a people so quietly 
that not a piece of furniture in a drawing-room should 
have been disturbed. 

One day, frightened, horrified with what he saw going 
on round him in Paris, he had quitted it suddenly for 
London. He got, by-the-bye, a rather cold reception 
from the other émigrés who had not been so tardy in 
taking their departure. Puyjoli, however, had refused 
to accompany his elder. 

“ Later,” he had replied, “ at present I find Paris 
exceedingly agreeable. There are still some pretty 
women here, whom the tri-coloured ribbons and red 
caps suit admirably. Run off to London where the sky 
is lead-coloured, and the rain falls five days out of the 
seven ? No, thank you, not yet.” 

The real reason, however, of his staying on in Paris 
was that M. de Louverchal still remained, cowering in 
his hôtel next door to the one in which Mirabeau had 
died, believing, like the ostrich, which seeks safety by 
hiding its head in the sand, that if he never went out, 
if he never saw anybody, he himself would be forgotten 
by those outside. 

His daughter, in her turn, could never be induced to 
consider the Revolution seriously. “Why give one’s 
self the trouble of running away to return again almost 


The Loves of the Viscount. 39 

immediately? This state of things cannot last. It is 
a tempest of which fury will soon be spent. Do not 
you think as I do, M. de Puyjoli ? ” 

Puyjoli, bowing deeply, would answer : 

“ As you please, Mademoiselle. Where you go, how- 
ever, I shall go. To-morrow, or ten years from 
now ” 

“ At Paris or at Peking — I know, I know.” 

“Exactly, Mademoiselle,” he would answer, gravely, 
on which she would burst out laughing. 

After he had gone, her father would remark, gravely : 

“ I11 your place, I should marry that youngster, as a 
reward for his fidelity.” 

“We shall see,” one day Mademoiselle de Louver- 
chal replied unexpectedly. 

Ah, if Puyjoli could only have heard that 4 we shall 
see ! ’ But unfortunately he did not. At that very 
moment he was with Sophie Clerval, in her apartment. 
He was at supper with the actress. Throwing his arm 
around her slender waist, and pressing his lips to her 
white shoulder, he exclaimed : 

“ The one thing which makes you ladies of the stage 
so charming is that you have no coquetries, you have 
only caprices. One needs only to gratify them and you 
are content.” 

“ Are you so vain as to imagine that we are satisfied 
with you because we find no fault?” she inquired, 
laughingly. 

“ That is only another reason you are so charming. 
Look,” he touched the fresh, rosy lips of the actress 
with the glass of champagne he held in his hand, “ your 
love is like that — sparkle and froth.” 

“ And the love of the women of your set — do you 


40 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

know what it is like ? ” she returned, pertly, “ Soup, 
soup, lukewarm.” 

“ You are too ridiculous,” he exclaimed, embracing 
her. 

“And you too beautiful,” she returned. “ I adore you 
as if I were a school-girl of fifteen.” 

Then, laying her pretty powdered head on his shoul- 
der, and gazing up at his face, bent down towards her, 
with eyes bright with sudden springing tears, she con- 
tinued playing with the curls of his golden hair. 

“ After all, you know, it is not improbable that these 
two heads, yours and mine, may at some not-far-distant 
day fall upon the scaffold. Such handsome heads, too — 
is not it a pity ?” 

“ There is only one way to make your thought less 
lugubrious,” he replied gayly, “ that they fall, as they 
do now — together.” 

“ Yes, in a kiss,” she returned passionately, seizing 
his head in both her hands. 


The Two Brothers. 


4i 


CHAPTER III. 

THE TWO BROTHERS. 

Puyjoli had an apartment which, thanks to Sophie 
Clerval, he rarely occupied, in the Rue Richelieu, called, 
since the Revolution, the Rue de la Loi . 

To the porter’s interrogatories, — 

44 Citizen Migrayon, what keeps the ci-devant Vis- 
count still in Paris, — not politics, I hope ? ” Puyjoli’s 
valet, an old servant of Madame de Trêmolat, would 
answer : — 

“ Ah — bah — politics ! He cares nothing for politics. 
It is the women.” 

44 Ah, an admirer of the fair sex — the Viscount ? ” 

“ Is not it natural — such a handsome young gentle- 
man ? ” 

Migrayon, however, was not quite right in his sup- 
position that his master cared nothing for politics. 
Puyjoli did not in fact occupy himself actively with 
the affairs of the nation, but he dabbled a little in poli- 
tics — that is as they were represented on the stage. 

In January of ’93 he was one of the spectators at the 
Théâtre de la Nation, who had set themselves to ap- 
plaud most vigorously Fleury in the caste of Fortis , 
and Larochelle as Duricrène , in Laya’s drama 44 Amis 
des Lois.” 

For Puyjoli, as for the greater part of the audience, 


42 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

under the disguise of the odious character of Duricrène, 
Citizen Marat was quite recognizable. 

Larochelle’s portrayal had been received with such 
frantic applause that the play had been suppressed 
after the first night’s representation by order of the 
censor of the Commune. 

On the next evening a furious demonstration had 
been made in favour of the suppressed piece by the 
audience. They refused to listen to the performance 
given on the programme ; drowning the player’s voices 
by vociferous shouts for the interdicted drama. 

And when, in reply to this imperative demand of 
theirs, the manager of the theatre had come before the 
curtain and attempted to read the order of the Com- 
mune, he had been interrupted by a perfect storm of 
hisses and cat-calls. “ Amis des Lois ! Amis des 
Lois ! ” resounded from all parts of the theatre. 

It was found necessary to send Santerre with a com- 
pany of the National Guards to the playhouse in the 
hope of putting an end to the tumult. 

It was Puyjoli who, when the General, in full regi- 
mentals, entered the theatre, had greeted him with the 
cry, taken up by all those around him of “ General 
Froth — General Froth,” in allusion to Santerre’s former 
occupation as a brewer. 

It was a jeu d'esprit daring enough to send its au- 
thor’s head to the guillotine. 

“ Why, Citizen Pluche, do not you laugh with the 
rest of us? ” exclaimed Puyjoli to the prompter as the 
two met in the foyer of the theatre that evening. 

“ I never laugh at anything dangerous, Monsieur le 
Vicomte,” answered the other, pronouncing the title 
half under his breath. 


The Two Brothers. 


43 

“ Speak out, Pluche,” returned the other, recklessly, 
“ Much prompting has made your voice as hoarse as a 
raven’s.” 

Pluche shook his head gravely. 

“ In times like these he who hears the most and 
speaks the least is the best oft.” Then the prompter 
added kindly : 

“Listen to me a moment, Monsieur de Puyjoli. “If 
you should ever be in any danger, and from your reck- 
less behaviour I fear you are liable to at any moment, 
remember that my humble dwelling will always be open 
to you.” 

“ Agreed, Pluche ! What a good fellow you are ! ” 

After all, it was an offer not to be disdained. Puy- 
joli, continuing as he did his campaign for Amis des 
Lois and against the civil authorities, went so far with 
other young men of his age and set, on the players re- 
fusing to act in the proscribed drama, as to scramble 
over the heads of the orchestra on to the stage, and 
there, book in hand, to read at the top of his lungs the 
different parts of the drama. Laya, the author, in con- 
sequence of this, was denounced before the Convention. 

One day, however, shortly after the denunciation, a 
man appeared at the house of the dramatist, whose ap- 
pearance, so wild and savage was it, seriously alarmed 
Madame Laya. This stranger, however, looking at her 
with a kind glance from under his beetling brows, 
said : — 

“ Do not be alarmed. I am Danton, and a friend of 
your husband’s. Tell him if he is in danger, to come 
to me and I will protect him.” 

In the meanwhile, our hero continued his headlong 
career. He continued to think what he pleased, and to 


44 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

speak aloud what he thought. He would have thrown 
his life away for a bon mot or a wager. After all, what 
had he to live for ? His brother was an exile ; they 
would probably never see each other again, and Bertha, 
whom he adored, laughed at him and scorned him. 

As for Sophie Clerval — ah, well, she would console 
herself very quickly for the loss of him, so pretty as 
she was too, Sophie. 

One morning, however, while still in his chamber, 
Migrayon came to tell him that some one desired to see 
him. 

“ Some one to see me, who is it?” 

“ Pio dê ségur ,” exclaimed Migrayon, in his patois of 
Périgord, so dear to the ears of his master, — “ but he 
looks like a procureur .” 

“ Let your procureur enter, Migrayon,” answered his 
master gaily. 

Directly afterwards the door opened and a man 
entered, at sight of whom Puyjoli uttered an exclama- 
tion of joy. 

“ You — here in Paris ! ” 

The new-comer laid a finger on his lips and glanced 
warningly at the valet. 

“No danger, it is Migrayon, my brother,” returned 
the other, embracing him. 

“ I thought you were in London,” said Gaston, when 
the two were alone together. 

“ I left there three days ago.” 

“ To keep me company in Paris? ” 

“ To fight in La Vendée ! ” 

“ Ah,” exclaimed Puyjoli, gaily, “how gladly I would 
go with you if I could only persuade Mademoiselle de 
Louverchal to make the journey with me to Brittany.” 


45 


The Two Brothers. 

“ Still in love in that quarter ? ” 

“ Still — and to my life’s end, my brother.” 

“ Ah,” returned the other, “ who knows how soon our 
lives may end.” There was a cadence of melancholy 
in his tone. The next moment he smiled, however, and 
began to relate in tones as gay as those of Puyjoli him- 
self why he had come to France. 

He had been living very quietly in London, waiting 
for the storm in Paris to blow over. One day some 
young noblemen, about starting for Brittany to join the 
army there, permitted themselves before departing, the 
pleasantry of sending to the Count’s lodgings a distaff, 
as the peasants of old were in the habit of doing when 
their lord tarried too long in his castle, instead of sally- 
ing out to defend his vassals. The Count had, on that, 
followed the senders to Dover. He had fought and 
wounded two of the number, then embarked in a few 
days for France. 

On disembarking under a false name at Calais, Mon- 
pazier had determined, before joining his comrades in 
Brittany, to visit his brother at Paris. 

“ But I fear,” he said suddenly, “ I have chosen an 
inopportune moment for my visit.” 

“Why?” 

“ Listen,” he opened the window wide as he spoke. 
The roar of cannon, the sound of hoarse voices and the 
heavy tramp of feet were audible. 

“Well,” returned Puyjoli, quite calmly. 

“ There is rioting out there in the streets, and — 
there, listen — the alarm guns. I heard something last 
night about an insurrection of the populace and an attack 
upon the Convention, but you, of course, will know more 
about it than I.” 


46 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ 1 —I know nothing at all about what is going on 
here in Paris. I never read the newspapers. I occupy 
myself simply with the playhouses, where I applaud 
the plays which please me, and hiss those which dis- 
please me. If at any time I can serve my king, I am 
ready to put my life to the touch to do so. But as 
things are, I am simply in Paris because Mademoiselle 
de Louverchal chooses to remain here. If you can 
persuade the Marquis to set out with his daughter for 
Brittany, I shall not be long after them, but while Bertha 
remains in Paris, I stay too.” 

Monpazier, whilst his brother was speaking, examined 
him closely. Certainly there could be no one hand- 
somer or more reckless of his life than this young noble- 
man. He would mount the guillotine surely at some 
day not far distant, and he would mount it smiling. 
Monpazier could not help admitting to himself that he, 
on his way to join the combatants in La Vendée, did not 
run half so much danger as his brother here in Paris. 
And yet the fighting would be warm enough down there 
in Brittany. 

The administration of the department of Deux-Sèvres 
had just declared La Vendée in a state of insurrection. 
The whole country there was aflame. 

“ If our friends act promptly and courageously, as I 
see no reason to doubt, we shall soon march down on 
Paris and proclaim the King again.” 

“ God grant they may. Give me your hand, and 
with it the promise of a speedy meeting again at the 
Place Louis XV.” 

“Well, we are not there yet or near it. Those ras- 
cals of Jacobins are full of enthusiasm, courage, firmness. 
They have set France on fire. Since I have been here 


The Two Brothers. 


47 

it seems as if the very soil were hot and burned my 
feet. From Calais to Paris the people are up in arms 
fighting for their liberty, their rights. After all, it is 
they who make the France of to-day. We — you and 
I, Gaston — belong to the old order which is passing 
away.” 

* k And yet you have come here to fight against the 
people.” 

“ Because I happened to be called Gérard de Mon- 
pazier. One does not desert the ranks on the eve of a 
battle. One does not run away from one’s friends 
when one sees them in danger of death or extermina- 
tion.” 

“ And how do you expect to reach La Vendée ? ” 

“ How can I tell ? by the help of Providence. To- 
day you behold me in the habit of a man of law ; to- 
morrow, perhaps, I may be wearing the red cap of a 
Jacobin or the tri-coloured scarf of a member of the 
Convention, but I shall arrive there. I must get there,” 
he added in a resolute tone, “ if for no other reason 
than to deliver the dispatches of which I am the 
bearer.’’ 

“ Dispatches ! ” exclaimed Puyjoli. 

“Yes.” 

“ Dispatches, and concealed upon your person ! 
Gérard, that is madness. If you should be arrested ” 

“ Nothing would be found on me.” 

He drew a pistol from his pocket and showed it to 
his brother. 

“ The dispatches are here.” 

“ Inside the pistol ? ” 

“ As wadding. If I should happen to be arrested, I 
shall draw my pistol and fire it off in the air, and the 


48 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

dispatches will be burned. If I am not arrested, they 
will reach their destination.” 

Puyjoli had taken the pistol into his hand and was 
regarding it closely. 

It was small, but of rather clumsy make. On its 
shining handle a female head was carved. 

“ Pretty — the head.” 

u Ah,” exclaimed Monpazier, laughing, “I thought 
you would not fail to notice the head.” 

“ Do you on your part, Gérard, never think of 
marrying? Have you found, perhaps in London, some 
pretty powdered head, the original of this one, which 
has succeeded in turning yours ? ” 

“ No,” returned Gérard, gravely, “ I do not trouble 
myself about the morrow — and, besides, it is also very 
probable that there will be very few more to-morrows 
for you and me.” 

“Oh, prophet of evil,” returned Puyjoli, “ you must 
not croak here. Of course there will be many to-mor- 
rows for you and me, and smiles from rosy lips, and 
glances from bright eyes. When this drama of the 
Revolution is played to the end, we, you and I, shall 
have time to play one of our own — a drama where love 
and faithfulness shall be properly rewarded at the falling 
of the curtain, my brother. These dispatches of yours 
contain cheerful tidings for our friends in Vendée, I 
am sure.” 

“They give instructions to the Vendean chiefs con- 
cerning the carrying on of the war down there, and a 
complete plan of the campaign as arranged by the 
Jacobins, and the number of troops they will be able to 
send against us.” 

Monpazier interrupted himself suddenly to listen 


The Two Brothers. 


49 

more attentively to the noises in the streets below — the 
thunder of the alarm guns, and the loud tolling of the 
tocsin. 

“ Decidedly,” he said, smiling, “ something extraor- 
dinary must be going on in Paris to-day.” 

“ I fear so,” returned Puyjoli. 

He added directly, however, with a shrug of his 
shoulders, “ Or I hope so, for who can tell how soon the 
storm may rage itself out and a calm succeed ? which 
would prove the truth of my assertion that there still 
remain many to-morrows for us both.” 

He had hardly, finished speaking, leaning with his 
brother on the broad window-seat, looking out curiously 
into the street below, when a knock was heard at the 
door and Migrayon, looking pale and agitated, entered. 

“ Well, Migrayon,” inquired the Viscount, carelessly, 
“ what is it? You are of the colour of the royal stand- 
ard itself, if one may dare to remember that there ever 
was such a thing as a king’s flag.” 

The poor fellow was indeed deathly pale, and trem- 
bled violently. 

“ Ah, Monsieur le Vicomte,” he returned. 

“Well — what? There is fighting in the streets 
again ! The towers of Notre Dame have fallen in ! 
Citizen Danton has become suddenly deaf from the 
sound of his own voice — or at the noise of the alarm- 
guns ! What is it ? speak.” 

“You have been denounced, Monsieur le Vicomte, 
before the Commune,” answered the frightened servant. 

“ Denounced — I ? ” 

“ Before the Commune, Monsieur, denounced for hav- 
ing read that play, ‘ Amis des Lois,’ on the stage of 
the theatre.” 

4 


5o Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

44 Yes, I did read it,” he answered laughingly, “ I read 
it. I read the rôle of Sainte-Prix, and I read it ex- 
tremely well, too. Sophie Clerval complimented me 
highly on my rendering of it ! ” 

“ Yes, but,” stammered Migrayon, “ You were recog- 
nised, and you have been denounced before the Section. 
You were described as a ci-devant, tall, well-dressed, 
remarkably handsome, with a complexion like a ripe 
apple.” 

“ Damn it ! ” exclaimed Puyjoli, wrathfully, “ could 
not the “ gentleman ” who denounced me have been a 
little less explicit in his description ? Ah, Messieurs les 
Jacobins, be kind enough at least to spare me the banal 
witticism of the worthy Canoness of Gignac ! ” 

44 Monsieur le Vicomte, the porter, who is a worthy 
man, told me likewise that a detachment of gendarmes 
will be here presently to search this apartment, which 
it is reported, however, you seldom occupy.” 

44 1 wonder Sophie was not denounced to the Section. 
It is all her fault I am here so seldom.” 

44 They may be here any moment, Monsieur le Vicomte ; 
you cannot leave here too quickly.” 

44 Leave here — why ? I am quite satisfied with the 
apartment.” 

44 Ah, Monsieur le Vicomte, I beg of you, no more of 
this bravado. The porter has risked his liberty, per- 
haps his life, in warning you.” 

44 There is not a moment to be lost,” continued his 
brother ; 44 you can escape more easily now the streets 
are in an uproar. So you and I must part, Gaston, 
though I had hoped to spend the night here with 
you. Well, I know a place where I can find a shelter.” 

44 Where?” 


The Two Brothers. 51 

“ Promise me first that you will leave this place 
directly.” 

“I promise you; and Migrayon, my lad, take my 
advice, and do not stop here long after your master. 
But if the gendarmes should find you and interrogate 
you of my whereabouts, you may give them my com- 
pliments and say I am off for the East Indies. They can, 
if they choose, send a brigade after me to Pondicherry.” 

“Have vou money, Gaston?” inquired his brother. 

“ Why ? ” 

“Because I can let you have some. I have some 
here in my belt.” 

“ Thank you ; I am in funds also. And now,” he 
continued, with deep and sudden emotion, “are you 
quite certain about this place where you are going to 
seek a refuge being a safe one ? ” 

“ Oh, quite safe.” 

“ Where is it you are going ? To one of our friends ? ” 

“No ; to a Republican.” 

“ The devil ! ” returned Puyjoli, frowning anxiously. 

“ One of the members of the National Convention.” 

“ Ah, I know who it is. André Thorel.” 

“ A friend and former schoolmate.” 

“ Can you trust him ? ” 

“ As I could you.” 

“ But his damned political convictions ? ” 

“ To a man like Thorel, friendship is a sacred thing. 
His hospitality is like that of an Arab chief. I am his 
friend, but if I were his enemy, I should be safe beneath 
his roof because I have thrown myself on his hospi- 
tality.” 

Puyjoli did not seem reassured by this declaration of 
his brother’s. 


52 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ I wish you could find another place to go to.” 

“Are you beside yourself, Gaston? Where in the 
world could I find a safer hiding-place than underneath 
the roof of a National deputy ? ” 

! “ Still, it seems a foolhardy thing to do. Something 

like a sheep seeking shelter in the den of a wolf.” 

“ Monsieur le Vicomte, Monsieur le Vicomte,” inter- 
posed Migrayon, anxiously. 

“Yes, yes,” returned Puyjoli, quickly. “Well, 
brother, we must part. Part, and who knows when we 
shall meet again. Reward the porter, Migrayon, well 
for his fidelity, and thank him from me. After all, 
Gérard, as Thorel’s wife is Clotilde Ponyade, you 
could not have found a securer hiding-place. By- 
the-way, I met her in the street accidentally the other 
day, and she also gave me to understand that if I 
were in need of a hiding-place her doors would be open 
to me, so if my other friend fails me, I may be glad to 
hide myself behind the petticoats of citizen ess Thorel. 
Poor Clotilde — her father gave his life for you, and 
here am I ungrateful enough to think of putting her 
head in danger to save my worthless one.” 

Then, suddenly dropping his rallying tone, he seized 
his brother’s hands in both his own, and, looking long 
and earnestly at him, exclaimed : 

“ Good-bye, then, Gérard, for the present.” 

“ Oh, we shall see each other soon again,” returned 
the other. “ When the hue-and-cry about you is over, 
you can come to André Thorel’s for news of me. You 
know where he lives ? ” 

“ Rue des Vieux Augustins.” 

“ Oh, my brother! ” exclaimed Puyjoli, throwing his 
arms around Monpazier, and pressing him to his heart, 


The Two Brothers. 53 

“if any harm befall you at Thorel’s, I shall move 
heaven and earth to revenge you.” 

“ How you talk, Gaston ; believe me, no harm can 
happen to me at Thorel’s. I wish you had as safe a 
refuge.” 

“Well, God bless you — and good-bye.” 

The brothers clasped hands again a moment, Migrayon 
standing by and impatiently urging their departure. 

As they stepped out into the street, the rolling of the 
arms, the heavy noise of the alarm-guns, the booming 
of the great tocsin-bell filled the air, and as the brothers 
were about to turn and go in opposite directions Puy- 
joli, reckless as ever, could not resist exclaiming, 

“ One consolation remains to us ; this fanfaronnade is 
not all on our account, Gerard.” 


54 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 


CHAPTER IV. 

CITIZEN PLUCHE. 

All day long, citizen Pluche, prompter at the Théâtre 
de la Nation , occupied one of the houses at the bottom 
of a dark alley of the Rue Hauteville (a little house with 
a small garden, in which was an arbour). All day since 
sunrise of this day in May, the bell of Notre Dame 
tolling the alarm, the booming of the cannon and the 
members of the Sections solemnly chanting the Marseil- 
laise, had been audible, and Pluche had shuddered at 
these ominous sounds. Signs and sounds betokening 
not a drama, but a tragedy, to be played not on the stage 
of the theatre, but in the streets of Paris. 

Citizen Pluche was, however, used by this time to 
rioting, bloodshed and tumults in the streets. On his 
way to and from the theatre he was obliged to pass by 
the Club of the Cordeliers. Once, indeed, he had ac- 
cidentally jostled against a tall, fierce-looking man, 
who, stopping under the window of the dwelling No. SO , 
had shouted out in a superb, deep voice — a capital voice 
for a tragedy-hero, Nicholas had thought on hearing it — 
“ Halloa, Marat,” and in response to this call, a win- 
dow on the first floor had been opened and a livid, sal- 
low face surmounted by a dirty night-cap, had appeared, 
while a thin, squeaking voice answered : — 

“ Yes, I am coming.” 


Citizen Pluche. 


SS 

It was Georges Danton on his way to the Cordeliers, 
shouting to Jean-Paul Marat to accompany him thither. 

Ever after, Nicholas Pluche could not resist raising 
his eyes as he passed by this window. From the 
door there floated a smell of printers’ ink and damp 
paper. Over the balcony of cast-iron, curious to relate, 
a fleur de lis was sculptured in the stone-work, and to 
Pluche’s excited fancy, the petals of the flower seemed 
to encircle a thick-lipped, flat-nosed face resembling that 
of the former surgeon and present journalist and mem- 
ber of the National Convention. 

Pluche had got up early this warm morning, had 
finished his usual work in his garden before the heat of 
the sun had grown too intolerable, and was now sitting 
with his wife, Babet, in the arbour, breakfasting. 

On the table before him was the “ Moniteur ” of the 
evening before ; it bore the date, Tuesday, 30th May, 
1793, or the year 1 of the Republic. 

He had finished reading the journal and was gazing 
contentedly about him. He was a man of sixty odd, 
but still fresh and healthy as he was a score of years 
ago. His wife was nearly twenty years younger — a 
comely dame, with bright eyes, a fresh complexion and 
a ready smile. 

Pluche threw back his head with an expression of 
contentment with himself and his surroundings. From 
his perruque floated in the summer air a little halo 
of hair powder. Pluche, before being a prompter had 
been an actor, but, to the great delight of Babet, he had 
ceased to tread the boards shortly after their marriage. 
He, however, still kept his stage costumes hung up in 
his wardrobe. He often took them out and shook and 
brushed them carefully, his eyes gazing fondly on them. 


56 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

Now, as he sat there in his arbour, memory carried him 
back to the day, eighteen years before, when he and 
Babet were married. He remembered how slender and 
fair she looked in her white marriage robes. He re- 
membered, and smiled at the recollection, how the curé 
advised him to write down in the register his profession 
as “ musician” and not “ actor.” This, however, was 
partly true, Pluche being an admirable performer on the 
violin. He had, too, a friend whose taste for music and 
admirable performance on the flute had formed a firm 
bond of friendship between the two. 

Médard, Pluche’s friend, was one of the players in 
the orchestra of the Théâtre de la Nation. When play- 
ing their duets together, the two would forget that a 
Revolution was raging around them. 

“ What a noise those guns are making ! Oh, shall 
we ever have peace and safety in Paris again, I wonder? 
I am sick of it all. I never lie down at night, but I 
wonder if you and I shall not be dragged off to prison 
the next morning,” exclaimed Babet suddenly, coming 
fromj^ie kitchen into the garden, and joining her lius- 
^kCnd in the summer-house. 

The government won’t molest us.” 

“ Perhaps not.” 

“ I am a good patriot ; I have not an enemy in the 
world that I know of. I see nobody except Médard, 
whose Christian name is Maximilian — the first name 
also of Citizen Robespierre — what in the world, then, 
are you afraid of, Babe? ” 

“ I am afraid of Publicola.” 

“ Publicola Verdier? ” Pluche shrugged his shoul- 
ders slightly under his flowered dressing-gown. “ Publi- 
cola is a friend of ours,” 


Citizen Pluche. 


57 

“ Too great a friend. He never leaves us in peace a 
moment. He is a neighbour, but a very tiresome one. 
He is always prowling about here quite unceremo- 
niously. The most pernicious member, too, of the Sec- 
tion. The very sight of him makes me shudder.” 

“Bah — Verdier is not so bloodthirsty as he would 
like to have us believe him. He is an old friend of 
mine ; I knew him formerly when he was an actor of 
small parts in the provinces. At that time I was able 
to show him some little kindnesses. It is true that that 
is no reason for trusting him, but rely on me, Babet, I 
can take care of you.” 

Babet, for all answer, smiled on her husband — a smile 
of the most perfect trust and confidence. 

“ You see,” he went on, “ from my wooden box into 
which I crawl every evening at the theatre, though I 
can only get glimpses now and then of Mademoiselle 
Contat’s shoulders.” 

“ The shoulders ? ” 

“ Or M. Dagincourt’s legs,” Pluche made haste to 
add. “ I reflect — I dream — and in prompting mechani- 
cally the words of Corneille or Molière, which I know 
by heart, I philosophize on what is going on about me.” 

The distant rolling of the drums, carried by the May 
breeze, was audible in this garden, filled with the odours 
of the flowers of spring. 

“ And I tell myself that men are, on the whole, less 
wicked than they would like to appear. Every human 
being has some good hidden away in him — and Verdier, 
that mistral of a Verdier, with his lungs of brass and 
his savage looks, is probably at bottom not much more 
cruel or relentless than the rest of us.” 

“ That depends upon whom you call 4 us,’ ” returned 


58 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

Babet, quickly. She had hardly finished speaking, 
when the door leading from the room into the garden 
opened, and a fat little man, quite out of breath from 
walking on this sultry morning, appeared. He stood 
there, leaning on his cane and fanning his flushed face 
with his cocked hat, to which a huge knot of tri-coloured 
ribbon was affixed. 

“ Ah, Monsieur Médard,” cried Babet. 

“ How did you get in, Citizen Médard ? ” inquired 
Pluche, of the new-comer. 

“ Through the gate — it was ajar, and I pushed it open. 
I could not, however, help thinking,” he continued, 
“ how imprudent it was of you to leave it open while 
you are sitting here talking together in the garden. 
The gate left ajar on a day like to-day — Heavens ! but 
you are imprudent ! ” And the visitor cast his eyes 
heavenward as though invoking help from that quarter. 

Poor Babet had turned quite pale at the thought of 
her carelessness. 

“ The gate ajar,” she murmured, “ for anybody to 
enter who chooses to do so — how could I have been so 
careless ! ” 

“ I hope you shut the gate and locked it after you,” 
exclaimed Pluche to the new-comer. 

“Of course, of course,” the little man answered 
promptly. 

“Won’t you join us at breakfast?” Pluche con- 
tinued, seeing that his wife was still too flustered to 
speak. 

“Thank you — no. I have already breakfasted. I 
have no appetite,” he added, in a tone which gave his 
hearers to understand that his walk through the streets 
had taken it away. 


Citizen Pluche. 


59 

“What is the tumult outside about?” inquired 
Nicholas. 

The new-comer shrugged his shoulders. 

“My faith, I don’t know. I know nothing at all, you 
know, of what is going on about me. Shut up in 
my office at the Hôtel de Ville, I do the work appor- 
tioned me and ask no questions. I never read a news- 
paper when I can help it. I buy one every day, of 
course, to have it seen sticking out of my coat pocket ; 
but read it — no thank you ! I read only music, as you 
know. I concern myself chiefly with the divine works 
of Chevalier Gliick, or Citizen Gliick, as one must call 
him now-a-days. Still, it seems to me as if to-day some- 
thing more important than usual were afoot.” 

“ What?” 

“ Ah, that I do not know,” he returned, shaking his 
head solemnly. He added, speaking under his breath 
as though relating some important secret, instead of a 
fact already discussed publicly by the forty-eight Sec- 
tions of the city, “ I think there is a rumour regarding 
the dissolution of the Committee of Twelve.” 

“ Ah,” interrupted Pluche, setting down the cup from 
which he had been drinking. “ To bring about the dis- 
solution of the Committee of Twelve is to aim a direct 
blow at the Girondins.” 

“ True, such is the intention of the Mountain. On 
the way from the Rue Eperon up to your door, I have 
heard nothing but threats and cries of denunciation 
against Brissot and his friends and followers. 

“ The devil,” exclaimed Nicholas, “ I fear there is 
danger in store for André Thorel.” 

“ Who is this citizen Thorel ? ” asked Mêdard art- 
lessly. It was quite evident that Médard had spoken 


6o 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

the truth when he affirmed a moment or two before that 
he took no interest in politics and never read the news- 
papers. 

“ Citizen André Thorel is one of the members of the 
National Convention. A man who at the age of thirty, 
has already won a place for himself in the history of his 
country. For the last month he has been among the 
foremost of his party to oppose the ferocious and un- 
provoked attacks upon it by the Mountain. It is quite 
evident, my dear Mêdard, that you do not read the news- 
papers, as you are ignorant of André Thorel’s fame. ,, 

44 You know him, then ? ” inquired Maximilian. 

44 Yes, we are very well acquainted with him and his 
wife — Babet and I ! — Before we came here, we occupied 
an apartment in the same house with them in the Rue 
Vieux Augustins. The citizen Thorel and his wife were 
just married. Such a pretty woman, Citizeness Thorel. 
They had the apartment below us. There was a large 
garden attached to the house, with a pavilion in it. 
Thorel and his wife had hired this with the garden. 
They still live in the house where we first became ac- 
quainted with them. Many a time have Babet and I 
watched them, walking arm-in-arm at twilight in this 
garden. It was a pretty sight, and reminded us of our 
youth and our early married days, eh, Babet ? 

44 It was in the year ’90 that we lived in the house in 
the Rue Vieux Augustins. The year I was sick with 
typhoid fever, you remember it, Mêdard.” 

44 Yes, indeed. I never thought you would get over 
it.” 

44 Thorel insisted upon it that the physician I had 
knew nothing about my case. He bled me and re-bled 
me till I was at death’s door — the Sangrado,” 


Citizen Pluche. 


61 


“ Citizen Thorel sent his own physician to us, who 
soon put Nicholas on his legs again. I shall never forget 
it. And who is it,” she inquired angrily, “ who wishes 
to do him an ill turn — who is it? ”she demanded in a 
tone so violent that her husband looked in surprise at her. 

“It is — Citizen Marat, who leads the attack against 
the Girondins.” 

“ Marat !” If a bomb had suddenly tumbled into 
that blooming, fragrant, peaceful garden, Citizeness 
Pluche could hardly have been more affrighted. 

“Marat — Jean-Paul Marat — that man ferocious as a 
tiger.” She already saw in her mind’s eye Thorel 
arrested, dragged before the Tribunal, ascending the 
steps of the guillotine. And Clotilde, whom she had 
first seen in the white robes of a bride, wearing the 
sombre habiliments of a widow. 

“ Poor Citizeness Clotilde,” exclaimed her husband, 
mournfully. 

Just then, like a great storm breaking over the city, 
the loud beating of drums burst on their ears. 

“ What does it mean ? ” exclaimed Babet, her face 
livid with terror. 

“ That,” replied her husband, his face as ghastly as 
her own, — “that is the general alarm.” 

“ That means more fighting, more bloodshed in the 
streets of Paris,” said Médard. 

“ It is only too likely,” returned his friend, sadly. 
“As to-day is Friday, and I had a headache, I got 
leave of absence from the office. If this commotion 
outside in the streets continues, I must ask you to put 
me up for the night.” 

“ With pleasure, my dear Médard. Nothing could 
give us more pleasure.’* 


62 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ And here with you it is as happy and peaceful as 
in Heaven, almost. Will the theatre be opened to- 
night ? ” he inquired later. 

“ Of course ; though every day tragedies are enacted 
in the streets around us, the public are no less greedy 
to behold the mimic ones of the stage.” 

“ Shall you go there ? ” 

“ Without doubt. Why should I be absent from my 
post?” 

“ But if anything should happen to you on the way 
thither ? ” 

“ What could happen to a poor devil of a prompter ? 
There is no fear of Jacobins or Girondins troubling 
their heads about me. The hurricane never uproots 
the blades of grass. Have you brought your flute with 
you, Citizen Médard?” 

“ Certainly,” returned the little man, drawing the 
pieces out of his pocket and beginning to screw them 
together. 

“ My violin, please, Babet.” 

“ What shall we play ? ” 

“Oh, anything, anything to shut our ears to the 
clamours outside.” 

“Well, Médard, are you ready?” 

“When you are;” and the two attacked gaily a 
rigadoon of Dardame’s. 

Their feet beat time to the measure. The sun, 
mounting higher and higher, made the buckles on their 
shoes glitter. The queue of Médard’s wig danced gaily 
up and down on the collar of his coat, and Nicholas’s 
head was soon encircled with a nimbus of hair-powder. 

Now and then above the gay music the boom of the 
cannon could be heard, or the hoarse chanting of the 


Citizen Pluche. 


63 

Marseillaise. And yet the two old friends sat there, 
deaf, regardless of all about them, the gay notes of the 
rigadoon soaring aloft like those of a lark singing amid 
a tempest. 

Just then, however, the loud and heavy booming of a 
bell caused the players to break off suddenly, and stare 
at each other with white, terror-stricken countenances. 

“ The tocsin — the tocsin,” whispered Babet, hoarsely. 

“Allegro! allegro!” exclaimed Pluche, stamping his 
foot; “Go on, friend Médard. Why did you leave 
off?” 

But Babet shuddered. The roar of the cannon was 
not so frightful to her as the deep and solemn tolling 
of the tocsin. 

“ Poor Citizen Thorel,” she sighed ; “ P oor Clotilde. 
What will become of them ? ” 


6 4 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE GIRONDINS. 

The party to which André Thorel belonged in the 
Convention of the Nation had on this Friday, the 31st 
of May, experienced a crushing defeat at the hands of 
the Jacobins — a defeat from which they were never to 
recover. 

Stanislas Maillard, the thin, acid man, leader of the 
women’s mob at Versailles in October of two years 
before, organizer of the September massacre of the year 
before ; Fournier, the American, L’Huilier, urged on 
by Rose Lacombe, one of the women who had demanded 
from the tribune that females should be armed with pick- 
axes and poignards in order that the Girondins might 
be exterminated, while the men who hesitated to wreak 
vengeance on them might stop at home to sew and rock 
the cradle, and Varlet — the ferocious Varlet — were the 
leaders of this attack upon their opponents. 

“Let the people march,” exclaimed Varlet, “ at the 
beating of the drum, to the Convention, and extirpate 
these Girondins, Federalists, accomplices of the Feder- 
alists, accomplices of the traitor Dumouriez and of the 
rebels in La Vendée.” 

Marat’s journal accused Gorsas, Pétion and their 
friends of being guilty of the September massacres. 
The gazette edited by Hébert also made the astonishing 


The Girondins. 


65 

statement that the night before the massacre, the Giron- 
dins had bought up all the bread baked in Paris by the 
bakers, and thrown it into the Seine. 

The evening before, Thorel, in crossing the Pont 
Neuf had heard a boot-black, who, upon his blacking- 
box, the better to be seen by his audience, was reading 
aloud to a crowd which had gathered about him, from 
a copy of Ami du Peuple that “ Brissot, (Listen to this 
now, citizens,) Brissot has stolen the diamonds of 
Garde Meuble.” 

“ Ah, these famous diamonds, which disappeared, flew 
away, evaporated you know, citizens, it was Brissot, 
Monsieur Brissot de Warville, who lined his pockets 
with them.” 

And the crowd shouted hoarsely, 

“ Down with Brissot ! ” 

“ He is accused by the Ami du Peuple of having sold 
these diamonds and having placed the money at inter- 
est in foreign banks.” At these words the crowd bel- 
lowed hoarsely, 

“ Death to Brissot ! ” 

“ When the cries had died away, the reader continued, 

“ And that rascal — that hypocrite Brissot — do you 
know now where he lodges — that Brissot ? why, in the 
king’s former palace.” 

André had listened in silence until now, when, hurl- 
ing himself into the midst of the maddened, infuriated 
crowd and planting himself before the boot-black, whose 
head, as he stood on his box, was just on a level with 
Andre’s, he exclaimed, 

“ May I explain to you, citizen, how Brissot lodges 
in a king’s palace.” The boot-black, astounded, made 
no answer, but stared at him in silence. The crowd, 
5 


66 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

too, had grown suddenly mute, eager to hear what this 
new actor on the scene might have to say. They eyed 
him curiously— this young man dressed handsomely 
in a coat of bright maroon cloth, a white waistcoat, his 
hair unpowdered, long and blonde, surmounted by a 
cocked hat, ornamented with buckles and a great tri- 
coloured cockade. They pressed and gathered round 
him. André was quite unarmed. 

“ Citizen,” he began, addressing the boot-black, 
“ Brissot has, in fact, received at the hands of the Na- 
tion — what ? A garret in the palace of St. Cloud. A 
garret which the aristocrat occupies in company with 
the rats which hold revel there. And as, in spite of 
his having stolen the diamonds of which Jean-Paul 
Marat in his journal accuses him, he has but three shirts 
to his name, he washes the two soiled ones himself in 
one of the fountains of the Park and hangs them out 
of the garret-window to dry. This is the simple truth, 
I can vouch for it.” 

“But you who tell us this,” inquired the former 
reader of the journal, “ how do you know this ? Are 
you a friend of Brissot’s — or Brissot himself, perhaps ? ” 

“ I am a friend of his,” returned Thorel, gazing un- 
daunted at the lowering faces which surrounded him. 

This avowal of his excited them to frenzy. With a 
hoarse cry of, “ A friend of Brissot — a Federalist — a 
Girondin ! ” the mob pressed menacingly upon him. 
There were shouts of : — 

“To the river ! — throw him into the river ! — the 
Girondin Î over the bridge with the traitor ! ” Grasp- 
ing his stick tightly and swinging it above his head, 
André stood his ground, calling in a loud voice as 
though before the tribunal : 


The Girondins. 


67 

“I am Thorel, André Thorel, Member of the Nation- 
al Convention. Let him who dares lay a hand on the 
representative of the People and of the Law.” At these 
words, by a quick, involuntary movement, the crowd 
drew back suddenly. As yet, a representative of the 
People was held sacred by the people. Those who had 
threatened to throw him into the river drew back re- 
spectfully to let him pass. One or two indeed, still 
muttered between their clenched teeth, “ A Girondin ! 
the people have had enough of such representatives,” 
but those around paid no heed to them. 

On his return home, in recalling the scene which he 
had witnessed, André Thorel remarked to his wife, 

44 I shall be very much surprised if to-morrow will 
not be a bad day for us Girondins.” 

“ A bad day for the Girondins, why, André ? ” she 
repeated anxiously. 

44 The Jacobins have advised the populace to rise for 
what they call a 4 moral insurrection,’ a display of force 
simply, and eject us from the Convention. But when 
loaded guns are in unskilled hands, they are apt to go 
off suddenly. There is certain to be an attack made on 
the Convention against our party to-morrow, and will 
you believe it, some of our party have been in favour 
of our resigning in order to avoid the decree of accusa- 
tion which will, in all probability, be launched at our 
heads. But I, for one, will not resign, be the conse- 
quences what they may.” 

44 Ah,” she exclaimed, this daughter of a soldier who 
had given his life for his lord ; 44 you are right, André, 
my André, so brave, so patriotic, how I adore 
you ! ” 

How she did, indeed, love him. He felt himself en- 


68 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

veloped, wrapped round in this love of hers, in the love 
of this young, charming creature, whose slender arms 
encircled his neck, whose eyes gazed lovingly into his 
own. She was not even terrified at the danger menac- 
ing him, so proud was she of him and of his courage. 

On the morrow, the 81st of May, whilst Pluche and 
Médard were playing their duets, whilst Puyjoli and 
his brother were leaning out of the Viscount’s apart- 
ment, listening to the thundering of the cannon and the 
roaring of the mob in the streets below, André was 
there in his place in the Convention, ready to exclaim 
with Verguin and his colleagues : “ Throw us into the 

gulf if you choose, but save the country.” 

The Sections in arms paraded the city. 

The Quartier Mouffetard, the Section of the Sans- 
Culottes, had had the Pole, Lazowski, superseded in the 
command of the National Guard by Henriot. For the 
three following daj^s, Henriot had caused cannon to be 
drawn up in the Park of the Tuileries, pointing to- 
ward the windows of the hall where the Convention 
was sitting. 

In the Champs Elyseés the cannoniers were casting 
metal balls to use against the Convention if the Giron- 
dins were not delivered up to their opponents of the 
Mountain. From the 81st of May until the 2nd of June, 
the Assembly of the French Nation held its sittings 
menaced by the cannons of Henriot, and received the 
petitions presented to it on the end of pikestaffs. 

On the 80th of May the Girondins were threatened 
as Thorel had prophesied to his wife. On the 2nd of 
June they were proscribed. 

That was on a Sunday. From Friday to Sunday the 
fate of the party hung in the balance. Ironical Sunday 


The Girondins. 69 

of summer, when the many-hued butterflies were flut- 
tering gaily about the pikes and muskets ! 

This morning, before quitting his wife for the Con- 
vention, André held her long and closely pressed to his 
bosom. 

“ It is my happiness I leave behind me, dear, but 
duty calls me and I must go.” 

“I know.” 

“ Our dear home, how happy we have been here to- 
gether,” he returned, glancing round, perhaps for the 
last time, on all he was leaving behind him. The books, 
strewed carelessly upon the table, Clotilde’s embroidery, 
with the needle still sticking in it — a paradise, a nest 
of love and peace. They had lived solely for each 
other. Clotilde had no relations, her guardian, Madame 
de Trêmolat, had died some years before, leaving her a 
snug little fortune with which to endow the husband 
she adored. 

“I should have been perfectly happy,” she would 

say sometimes, “ if I had only had ” here, however, 

she would leave off speaking suddenly, perceiving the 
shadow her words had caused to creep over her hus- 
band’s face. A child — was what she so passionately 
desired and longed for. Now, however, she and André 
were content that this wish of their hearts had been 
denied them. “We may, however, see each other again, 
my husband,” she sighed, throwing herself again into 
his arms. It was her wish to go with him to the Assem- 
bly this morning as usual, but this he would not con- 
sent to. 

“ The terrace of the Feuillants to-day is no place for 
the wife of a Girondin.” He exacted from her further a 
promise not to leave the house. 


7o Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ I promise you,” she replied ; “ but remember what 
an agony of suspense I shall surely be in, and send me 
word as often as possible how it goes with you. Ah, 
would to God this day were over, and you by my side 
again ! ” 

44 Do not despair,” he returned, 44 a power like that 
of the Girondins is not crushed in a day. 

On this day the Sections, which on the day before 
and the one preceding that, had not moved, now de- 
scended, egged on by the Commune, in force upon the 
Convention. A hundred persons at most from each 
Section, less than five hundred in all, totally destroyed 
and annihilated the party of the Girondins. 

As on the two preceding days, the drums rumbled 
through the streets as André set out on his way to the 
Hall of the Convention. 

44 The Girondins will be exterminated this day — the 
traitors ! ” Farther on, an old woman mumbled half 
under her breath, for fear of being overheard : 

“This Sunday is St. Pamphile’s day. Well, the 
saint will have a fine fête, it seems.” 

44 A fête-day.” 

André remembered suddenly that the next day, 
Monday, would be Saint Clotilde’s day, the fete-day 
of his wife. The day he was always used to celebrate 
by bringing home to her a great bouquet of roses, in 
which some trinket would be hidden away. 

Clotilde’s fête-day ! — and he had quite forgotten it. 

He was now passing through the Garden of the 
Revolution, the Garden of the Palais Royal formerly. 
The Garden was filled to overflowing with soldiers of 
the National Guard with members from the Sections, 
with tradespeople talking loudly, and excited, unsexed 


The Girondins. 


7i 

women. Passing by a jeweller’s shop, André Thorel 
stopped suddenly, seeing in the window a pair of ear- 
rings which Clotilde, out walking with him on the 
evening before, had remarked and admired. Entering 
the shop, the shopman came to meet him, bowing: 

“ Let me look at those ear-rings in the shop window, 
citizen.” 

The ear-rings purchased, Thorel put them into his 
waistcoat pocket. A fond superstition made him be- 
lieve that no evil could befall him with these jewels for 
Clotilde about his person. The jeweller accompanied 
him to the door of the shop, opened it for him, and, 
looking at him earnestly, said in a whisper : 

“Take care, Citizen Thorel.” 

André made a movement of surprise. 

“ You are on your way to the Convention,” continued 
the man in a whisper, looking around him fearfully, as 
though fearing to be overheard. 

“ Yes.” 

“ There will be a storm there, I fear, Citizen. Since 
daybreak there have been ominous rumours flying about. 
I wish you success in your struggle against the Jacobins 
and the Sans-Culottes.” 

Hardly were the words off his lips when he had shut 
the door and hurried back to the refuge of his shop 
again. 

“ And such cowards as he are our friends and well- 
wishers,” thought André bitterly. 

On leaving the garden he felt himself being hurried 
and pushed along by a great throng of men and women. 
A roaring, cursing, turbulent crowd. Whole families 
had encamped on the street-corners. There were women 
suckling their infants, while children hardly .beyond 


72 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

the toddling age clung to the skirts of their mothers 
singing the Marseillaise and brandishing sticks as long 
as themselves over their heads. The members of the 
Sections were breakfasting in the open streets, before 
beginning their task of besieging the Palace as they had 
done the year before on the 10th of August, whilst the 
royal family was imprisoned there. 

“ But,” thought Thorel, “ are they here to defend or 
to besiege us ? ” He listened eagerly to the cries of the 
Sections around him. Some cried, “ Down with the 
Girondins ! ” — “ Long live L’Evéché ! ” “ The arrest of 

the Two and Twenty!” Others, “Long live the Con- 
vention,” — “ The Convention one and indivisible as the 
Republic ! ” The refrain of the Marseillaise, Ça ira, 
Ça, ira, was chanted on every side — the refrain of free- 
dom and patriotism suddenly become a menace to life 
and liberty. Others, careless sparrows in a tempest, 
hummed the airs from the popular Visitandines. De- 
vienne^ volatile music mingled, oddly enough, with the 
solemn strains of Rougét de Lisle’s high canticle to 
liberty. 

It was a difficult task enough for André to enter and 
take his seat on one of the benches of the Convention 
The hall was surrounded, enveloped fairly by a wall of 
bristling bayonets. 

Before the Pavilion de V Horologe Thorel was stopped 
by one of the populace. 

“ No one is allowed to pass here,” he said brusquely. 

“ Friend,” returned Thorel, calmly, “ I belong inside, 
I am a deputy of the Convention.” 

“ Your name.” 

“ The Law,” replied Thorel, promptly. “ And you ? ” 
*‘The People,” returned the fellow boldly; but ho 


The Girondins. 


73 

made way ; as yet the magic word the Law was of 
omnipotent power. André asked one more question of 
the rioter. 

“ To which section do you belong ?” 

“ Manconseil.” This was that of which Robespierre 
was the President. 

Thorel glanced towards the Champs Elysées. As far 
as his eye could reach he saw a sea of bayonets, blades 
and pikes’ ends. A whole city was in arms, drawn up 
around the palace. At the great door of the palace the 
gunners were seated before their guns, drinking brandy, 
the lighted matchlocks stuck up straight before them 
in the ground. 

By a vigorous use of his elbows, André succeeded in 
entering the hall. It was a noisy, clamorous assem- 
blage enough. 

Barbaroux was speaking, counselling his colleagues 
to obey the decree of the day preceding. Languinais 
succeeded, his speech interrupted continually by the 
sneers of Chabot and the threats of Legendre. 

Thorel listened, pale but resolute, his arms crossed on 
his chest, having succeeded in gaining his place on the 
bench. 

Below him he could see the hideous face of Marat, 
the leader of the contest against the party to which he 
belonged. Outside the hall, Henriot commanded. In- 
side, Hérault presided. Inside, the tempest of angry 
voices rose and raged. Outside, the crowd howled and 
threatened, whilst the butts of the muskets of the 
soldiers surrounding the building clashed noisily on the 
pavement. 

And now there came an order that none of the members 
was to quit his place. Soldiers with crossed bayonets 


74 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

kept the door. The deputies were prisoners in their 
own hall of convention. 

“ I shall never see Clotilde again,” Thorel told him- 
self. 

Then a voice cried: — 

“I demand against the Twenty-Two, not merely a 
decree of accusation, but an order of temporary arrest.” 
It was Couthon speaking. André glanced in the direc- 
tion where the cripple Couthon was seated on his bench, 
surrounded by the Thirty, his adherents, who clamoured 
loudly that the Twenty-Two should be declared under 
arrest at their own houses. 

A proposition was made to the Girondins, in order to 
reassure them, to choose from among the other deputies, 
twenty-two hostages. 

“We refuse,” exclaimed Barbaroux, “ we put our 
lives in the hands of the citizens of Paris.” 

Evening came. It grew dark in the debating cham- 
ber. The lamplighters came in and lighted the lamps 
mechanically as on other evenings. The heat was 
intense in the hall. At last the commune consented to 
raise the interdict by which for some hours it had kept 
the deputies prisoners on their benches. Thorel left 
the chamber. He was half-suffocated, hungry and 
thirsty. He passed out of the Garden of the Tuileries 
quickly, looking for a place where he could find some- 
thing to eat and drink. 

One of his companions in the Convention, like him 
a Girondin, put his arm through Thorel’s as they turned 
down one of the streets leading towards St. Roche, and 
whispered : 

“ You will come with us, will not you ? ” 

“ Where?” 


The Girondins. 


75 


“ To Normandy.” 

“ To fight ? ” 

“Yes. To organize against the Jacobins a force 
strong enough to crush them. Wimpfen will command 
it. He is one of us.” 

Thorel stopped suddenly, looking his companion 
straight in the face. 

“ No,” he answered, “ I shall remain here. The 
Convention, in sacrificing us to our enemies, committed 
a great crime against us, but we should be committing ' 
a greater should we rebel against it. Civil war, when 
the nation is attacked on all sides by foreigners? — 
never ! What does it matter if our lives are sacrificed 
to the Republic ? ” 

“ It is to save and deliver our country that we should 
live — adieu.” 

“ Adieu,” returned André, sadly. 

He turned and looked after the retreating form of 
his companion, strongly tempted to run after him, to 
stop him before it should be too late. “ Civil war — it 
would be foolish and criminal to plunge the country 
into it at this moment. But while he hesitated the 
other had disappeared. 

Thorel longed to return to his home in the Rue 
Vieux Augustins, to see Clotilde, if but for a moment. 
How anxious she would be. But to return home now 
would be madness. The decree of arrest against him 
might have already been enforced. He would wait 
until night had closed in. Then he would steal up to 
his wife’s chamber and place the ear-rings he had 
bought for her in her ears. Half unconsciously André 
listened to what the groups of persons he passed by in 
the street were saying. Around the sellers of some 


76 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

newspapers a circle had formed. He approached them 
to hear what was going on. In the show-window of a 
picture-shop were hanging some portraits of the Na- 
tional Representatives, and the light of the candles in 
the show-window illuminated these pictures. His glance 
fell upon his own portrait, hanging with those of his 
colleagues. 

44 Look, there they are — the Twenty-Two,” said some 
one. 

44 How ugly they are ! ” exclaimed a little hunchback, 
grinning maliciously. 

“ Poor creatures,” murmured a woman beside him ; 
44 how young they are.” 

44 Ah, that is a good idea,” exclaimed a fat fishwife, 
laughing loudly, 44 to hang them up there in a row 
together. One can recognise them if one should ever 
meet them.” 

Already André understood the full meaning of that 
terrible word, 44 proscribed .” He must learn to flee, to 
conceal, to disguise himself, the Girondin thought 
sadly. He went away rapidly, looking straight ahead 
of him, ascending, half unconsciously, the heights of 
Montmartre. 

After leaving the Boulevards, the streets grow narrow 
and winding. Stretches of ground uncovered by houses, 
extend along the terraces of the height of the Martyrs. 
André had now reached one of the suburbs of the 
city, a suburb with villas and gardens, vineyards and 
meadows, and here and there some fields in which 
wheat was sprouting. It was still light on these hills, 
a luminous twilight promising a clear and starlit night. 
A joyous crowd of young people were descending the 
heights of Montmartre on their way to theiv bQni§§ in 


The Girondins. 


77 


the city. A gay, laughing, merry crowd, carrying 
branches of blooming hawthorn over their shoulders, 
and nosegays of wild-flowers in their hands. 

On nearing the Barrier, Thorel noticed, before pass- 
ing through, that each was closely interrogated by a 
soldier in charge there. For a moment the idea came 
to him to give a false name and flee from Paris. But 
after all, where could he go ? And how could he leave 
his wife behind him, a prey to anxious doubts and fears ? 

He turned and descended the hill in the direction of 
the city. As he walked he could hear the sentinels 
now and then challenging some passer-by. Some detach- 
ments of cavalry rode slowly by. Paris had really the 
aspect of a city besieged. 

Presently he found himself on the spot whence he had 
started. He searched narrowly among the wine-shops 
for one insignificant enough to afford him a refuge. A 
difficult thing to find in that ancient quarter of the 
town on the first Sunday in June. He succeeded at 
last in stumbling upon a little cabaret . The front of 
the shop was embellished by a sign where, upon a back- 
ground of vivid scarlet, some hares were pictured, leap- 
ing about in a frying-pan. 

Under the arbour a few persons were seated, drink- 
ing ; peaceful, quiet folk, accompanied by their children. 
The shop itself, however, seemed to be empty. 

The polished tables glittered in the light of a lamp 
which hung from the ceiling. André entered and took 
a seat at one of them. A young woman in a white cap 
ornamented with a bow of tri-coloured ribbon came 
forward to wait upon him. 

“ An omelette, with wine and bread, if you please, 

citizeness,” 


78 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“No rabbit? We have some excellent rabbit pie. 
The citizen by the door yonder has already ordered two 
portions of it.” 

“Very well, as you please, citizeness.” 

Until the woman spoke André was not aware that 
the cabaret had another occupant. He looked curiously 
in the direction indicated by the hostess and saw a man 
seated about three tables away from him, eating rapidly, 
his nose held down over his plate. 

Thorel examined the man’s profile, which was toward 
him. He had pulled his hat close down over his eyes 
as though to avoid being recognised. 

“ Who can he be ? ” thought André, “ an exile or a 

spy-” 

The stranger was about thirty years old, with a pale, 
closely-shaven face, hair unpowdered. He wore a 
sombre coat of dark brown. 

At the end of a moment’s examination, André said 
to himself: — “It is singular, but if I were not cer- 
tain Monpazier was away from Paris, I should swear 
that was he.” 

At this moment the man raised his eyes from his 
plate and examined André in his turn. 

“ It is certainly Gerard,” said Thorel to himself. 
“ What in the world has brought him here ? ” 

As soon as the woman had left the room to prepare 
the omelette, the stranger rose quickly and came up to 
the table where the Girondin was sitting, and, holding 
out his hand, exclaimed : 

“André!” 

“ Gérard, — it is you, then ? I was just telling my- 
self ” 

“ I recognised you the moment you entered,” replied 


The Girondins. 


79 

Monpazier. “ I thought that woman would never leave 
us alone together. How glad I am to meet you. Do 
you know, I was on my way to your house ? ” 

“ To my house ? ” 

“ As soon as it was dark, I intended to knock at your 
door and beg a night’s lodging. I am a fugitive. I 
have come to fight against your friends and compatriots. 
Yet, André, I was certain I should not seek for shelter 
in vain at your hands.” 

“ Shelter, and from me ! ” and Thorel laughed a 
hoarse, nervous laugh. “ My poor Gérard, I am a de- 
nounced, a proscribed fugitive like yourself ; — I and all 
my party with me.” 

“ Vive Dieu ! ” exclaimed the count, “ but the Jaco- 
bins go rapidly to work. Proscribed — that is to say 
condemned ! What do you intend to do ? ” 

“ Flee , wait — I cannot tell. In politics the wheel of 
fortune turns fast, and to-morrow who knows but — but 
no matter about me.” Thorel, gazing anxiously at his 
friend, continued: 

“ In the name of all that is sensible, Gérard, why did 
you come back to Paris ?” 

“ Oh, to get myself killed, most probably. After all, 
what does it matter ? ” 

André frowned slightly. 

“ I do not ask whence you come or where you are 
going, but if you had come to me yesterday for shelter 
you would have found it.” 

“ The very thing I told my brother this morning.” 

“ That idiot of a Puyjoli ; he risks his head by ap- 
plauding and crying for the plays prohibited by the 
censors of the Commune.” 

“But,” returned Monpazier, with forced gaiety, “ you 


8o 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

and I risk our necks too, if not in the same way. Life 
is a game, and if one loses one pays his losses with his 
head.” 

“My poor Gérard,” returned André, “yesterday my 
house would have been a safe enough shelter for you, 
to-day it is as unsafe as the streets filled with the sol- 
diers of Henriot.” 

“ And Puyjoli and I were so certain that your house 
would be safe for me that he has promised to come to- 
morrow to visit me there.” 

“Your brother imagines ” 

“ That I am now at your house. A member of the 
Convention as you are, we were certain ” 

“ Silence— the hostess,” exclaimed the other, hastily, 
as the woman returned from the kitchen, a dish with 
the omelette smoking on it, in one hand. She stopped 
in astonishment at beholding the two whom she had 
supposed strangers seated at the same table in familiar 
and confidential conversation. It was quite probable 
she might have her suspicions about them. 

“ Finish your meal as quickly as you can,” whispered 
Monpazier to his companion, “and let us get out of 
here.” 

“André swallowed glass after glass of wine with 
his omelette, finished his meal hastily, paid the score 
in assignats instead of coin, for fear of exciting 
the woman’s suspicion, and went away, exclaiming 
loudly, 

“ An excellent omelette, citizeness. I never tasted a 
better.” 

When they were in the street again, Thorel asked 
under his breath, 

“ And now, Gérard, where shall you go ? ” 


The Girondins. 


8ï 


“ I do not know.” 

u With me, you need fear nothing. Is not it your 
idea to go to La Vendée?” 

“ Yes.” 

« Why?” 

“ Because honour calls me there, and I obey the 
call.” 

“Your duty is~to your country — to France.” 

“ My country is where my friends are, and that is at 
present in La Vendée.” 

“ Listen, Gérard ; it is folly to fight against French- 
men, who are your countrymen, whether they be of 
Paris or Périgord. Take my advice. Do what I shall 
do. Find a secure hiding-place and lie there perdu till 
the storm blows over. It cannot be that this state of 
anarchy and misrule will last for ever. There is no 
safety for you under my roof, but I can send you to the 
house of a friend of mine where you will be quite safe. 
I intended to go there myself to-night, but I can find 
another shelter, and you shall go there in my place. 
The man is a Republican, a draper — Citizen Vincent 
Leroux. His shop is in the Rue du Mail, No. 9. He 
is a staunch friend of mine, and with him you will be 
quite safe. Tell him frankly who you are, and that I 
have sent you to him.” 

“ But suppose Citizen Leroux should refuse to be- 
lieve that I came from you?” 

“ Ah, I had not thought of that. Wait; ” and Thorel 
took out of his pocket-book a card on which were en- 
graved his name and title of Deputy, wrote a few words 
on it, and handed it to his companion with the words : 

“ Give this card to Citizen Leroux ; it will be 
sufficient to insure you a welcome from him.” 

6 


82 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ That — it is a sceptre — that card to-day.” Then, 
still holding the card lightly between his fingers, he 
continued : “ But, after all, the sceptre is only a bit of 
paper and the insignia of power but a name scribbled 
on it. Ah, forgive me, André, I did not mean to be 
ungrateful, but times have changed with a vengeance 
when a Monpazier has not in all France a place to lay 
his proscribed head.” 

“ Leroux,” continued the Girondin, ignoring the 
other’s last remark, “ will welcome you as hospitably as 
he would have received me; and in his small, dark 
shop, you will be as safe as in your lodgings in London.” 

“ Safely hidden away behind the bales of cloth and 
silks — be it so ! — but you, André, where do you think 
of going?” he asked anxiously. “You have just told 
me you intended going thither yourself for refuge, and 
I cannot consent to deprive you of it unless you can 
assure me that you have another place to go to as sure 
and safe as this would have been. 

“ I know of another place.” 

“You are quite sure it is a safe one? ” 

“ Have not I already told you so ? ” 

“Listen to me, André. You must swear to me that 
you are not putting your own life in jeopardy to save 
mine ; else I will not stir a step from this spot.” 

“ I am running no danger at all in this case, Gérard ; 
have you any money ? ” 

“ Money ! My clothes are fairly lined with it,” Mon- 
pazier returned, laughing and shrugging his shoulders. 
“ I have a small fortune concealed upon my person, and 
I would give every louis of it to that person who would 
insure to my brother and me a place to sleep this night 
in safety.” 


The Girondins. 83 

“ Do not forget Leroux’s address, Rue du Mail, 
No. 9.” 

“ I shall not forget it — Vincent Leroux, draper.” 

“ And now,” continued Thorel, his voice breaking 
with emotion, “ it is better for us to part. Every mo- 
ment is precious, and should be used. Hasten, Gérard, 
to get to Leroux’s house. It is dangerous for you to 
be seen in my company. The streets are no place for 
us to wander about this night. But we shall see each 
other again, if fate wills.” He grasped Monpazier’s 
hand tightly in his own and exclaimed, 

“ To the care of a propitious Destiny I commend 
you, Gérard.” 

“And I you to God’s care,” returned the other, 
solemnly. 

With these words they parted. 

But where should he go now, the Girondin thought, 
when he was left alone again. Where indeed? He 
walked on aimlessly for some distance, when the recol- 
lection of his former neighbours, Pluche and his wife, 
returned to him. Why not go there? They would 
surely take him in. He went on slowly. Then he re- 
membered suddenly that at this hour the prompter 
would be at the theatre, and Babet at home alone. 
Well, what did it matter? He was sure of a welcome 
from Babet. Nobody would ever think of looking for 
him in the modest little house in the Rue Hauteville. 

He would be obliged, however, to pass through the 
Rue Vieux Augustins on his way there. He was now 
in front of his own door. Could he not go in a mo- 
ment — just one moment — to assure his wife of his 
safety? He decided that he could. 

For a few brief moments he would go in to allay her 


84 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

fears about him, to hang the ear-rings he had bought for 
her in her dainty ears. 

Just then at the corner of the street a gendarme 
appeared, coming evidently in the direction of André’s 
very door. He decided, therefore, to creep round to the 
side and enter through a little gate in the garden wall. 
He had the key by him, as it happened. He opened the 
gate and entered. 

There were some rather tall trees and a thick cluster 
of lilac-bushes growing against the wall. As he stood 
there, he heard footsteps coming hurriedly along the 
gravelled walk. He drew back still farther into the 
shadow. A white form glided by him, noiselessly. It 
was now too dark to distinguish whose figure it was, 
yet Thorel felt quite sure it was that of his wife. He 
followed stealthily, and now his eyes growing accus- 
tomed to the darkness, he was able to recognize quite 
certainly that it was Clotilde who had just passed. 

Clotilde, alone, at this time of night, here in the gar- 
den ; what could it be that had brought her there ? 
Impossible. It could not be she. Yet the figure 
strangely resembled hers. The figure went on up to 
the pavilion at the other end of the garden, where, 
during the hot days of summer, Thorel and his wife 
used to sit — he with his writing, she with her needle- 
work. Its one room had been comfortably furnished 
with chairs, one or two small tables, a writing-desk 
and a couch. Still this pavilion was never used by 
them at night. 

The figure, arriving at the door of the pavilion, 
knocked twice upon the panels of the door. In reply, 
the door opened silently. A lamp w T as burning inside, 

André could no longer doubt that this white-robed 


The Girondins. 


85 

figure was that of his wife, and that she had gone to 
meet some one there secretly. A great burst of rage 
filled his heart. His head reeled — he staggered. For 
one moment he seemed about to fall to the ground. 
The next, he had recovered himself. He crept up to 
the door of the pavilion, and put his ear against it. 
He heard voices speaking within. His wife’s and 
another’s — a man’s. They were speaking in low tones 
but he could, as he stood there, catch some words of 
the conversation. 

His wife was speaking earnestly with this man, plead- 
ing with him, conjuring him to do something he seemed 
disinclined to do. She spoke to him in tones of famil- 
iar affection, calling him “ Gaston.” Gaston, — among 
all Thorel’s and his wife’s friends and acquaintances 
there was none whose Christian name was Gaston. His 
wife had no brothers, no male relatives at all, as he 
well knew. 

Again, as her voice was raised in the fervour of her 
supplication, he caught these words, “ old memories ” — 
“ former love ” — “ our past.” . This word, the “ past,” 
was repeated again and again by her. 

So she had had, then, a “ past ” of which he knew 
nothing? In a wild burst of ungovernable anger and 
fierce jealousy, André, hardly conscious of what he 
was doing, shook the door violently. The light was 
suddenly extinguished. The voices left off speaking. 
Placing his shoulder against the door, André burst it 
in. He groped about in the darkness with outstretched 
arms, seeking to grasp something. He stumbled over 
some overturned pieces of furniture, but the pavilion 
was untenanted. The occupants of it had fled away in 
the darkness. 


86 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ They cannot be far off,” he muttered, between his 
clenched teeth. “I shall have them yet.” 

The pavilion, he knew, was built at the entrance of 
a grotto. From this grotto, an underground passage 
led into the street, the Rue Plâtrière. 

“Ah, I had forgotten that,” he exclaimed to him- 
self, and then the bitter, cruel thought came to him 
that Clotilde had never reminded him of this passage 
as a way of flight, should he be in danger, preferring, 
it was evident, to keep it for the use of another. Well, 
he would follow them — he would pursue them to the 
street where he would fall upon this man, the betrayer 
of his wife, with his bare fists, for he was not armed. 
He would administer to the seducer the punishment 
which he merited. 

Here, however, he heard some one call his name in a 
whisper : 

“ Citizen Thorel.” 

Turning quickly, he beheld a man standing in the 
aperture of the doorway. 

*“ Who is there ? ” 

“ Panazol, your neighbour.” 

Panazol was the name of a worthy man, a cobbler, 
who occupied a little shop next Tliorel’s house on the 
Rue Vieux Augustins. 

“ I saw you enter by the alley into the garden just 
now, citizen. The soldiers are here, just on your heels. 
They are at present in your apartment, searching for 
you. But they will soon have done and come here to 
seek you. You have just time to escape them, but 
hurry — hurry and be off directly.” 

To go away now, André felt would be quite impos- 
sible. Moreover, how was it that the shoemaker had 


The Girondins. 87 

known that he was here in the pavilion? In answer 
to this question, the man replied quickly; — 

“ Because I saw Citizeness Thorel enter here only a 
short time ago.” 

“Alone?” 

“ Alone.” 

André was now more bewildered than ever. He was 
about to question the shoemaker further, when the 
latter exclaimed impatiently : 

“ Citizen, there is no time to be lost in parleying. 
Hurry, hurry; it seems to me as if there were already 
persons in the garden. Come with me at once. I 
have a rope-ladder by me with which you can climb the 
wall and reach the street in safety. From the street 
to my shop is but a step. There is no time to lose.” 

Seizing André by the arm, he drew him rapidly 
away. There was indeed no time to be lost. Fig- 
ures were to be seen passing by the windows of the 
Thorels’ apartment, now brilliantly lighted. A door 
leading out into the garden was opened noisily and 
heavy footsteps came running in the direction of the 
pavilion. By this time they were at the other end of 
the garden. The shoemaker fastened the ladder to the 
wall, and as soon as André had ascended it and dropped 
over into the street, he followed quickly, leaving the 
ladder dangling. “ They will not think of looking here 
to-night. When they find the ladder in the morning you 
will be out of their reach. Come into the shop now 
for a time.” 

André let the man lead him whither he would. When 
they were in the dark shop, for Panazol did not dare to 
make a light for fear of discovery, the shoemaker in- 
quired anxiously : 


88 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ And now, do you know of any place where you 
will be safe ? I know of a laundry at the side of Mont- 
rouge.” 

“Thank you, thank you,” exclaimed André, much 
moved, “but I have a friend at whose house I shall be 
safe. Thank you.” 

“ Why thank me,” returned the man, wonderingly, 

“ Between neighbours but now you must stir your 

stumps, and when I see Citizeness Thorel to-morrow, I 
can tell her you are safe.” 

“ Safe,” thought Thorel, bitterly, as he went out into 
the street. 

A whirlwind of confused thoughts, of wild plans, was 
raging in his breast as he went mechanically on his 
way. To what an ironical turn of destiny did he owe 
it that this poor neighbour of his, a man who was almost 
unknown to him, should save his life, while his wife, 
whom he trusted and loved, should choose this night 
of all others to betray him. 

“ Why, after all, should I seek to escape ? Why not 
return and deliver myself up to my pursuers?” he 
thought moodily, as he strode along. “ There is no 
more happiness left for me in this world. I might far 
better be dead.” 

The dreams and illusions of his life had fled. Lib- 
erty, at whose shrine he had worshipped, had deceived 
and abandoned him. The wife he loved and cherished 
had betrayed him. Suddenly he recollected the little 
box stowed away in his waistcoat pocket, containing 
the jewels he had bought for her that very day, for her 
fête-day on the morrow. Fool that he was — confiding, 
trusting husband. 

“ Idiot,” he muttered, between his clenched teeth. 


Vincent Leroux. 


89 


CHAPTER VI. 

VINCENT LEROUX. 

When Gérard de Monpazier parted from his friend 
Thorel, he deliberated if it would not be better to re- 
turn for a moment to his brother’s lodgings in the Rue 
de la Loi and leave word with Migrayon of his change 
of plans and the address of Vincent Leroux, that Gaston 
might visit him there and not at Thorel’s as they had 
determined upon. 

On second thoughts, however, he decided it would be 
too dangerous. After all, it was quite improbable that 
Puyjoli would in any case venture to come either to 
Thorel’s or the draper’s to seek him. It was also quite 
improbable that his brother would return to his apart- 
ment for some time to come. It certainly would be in 
the highest degree dangerous for him to attempt it. 
“ Then forward ! ” exclaimed Monpazier to himself, “ to 
this Jacobin draper’s shop. By the light of a street-lamp 
one could read the legend on a huge sign — “ Vincent 
Leroux, cloths from Sedan, silks from Lyons.” 

Monpazier surveyed the premises carefully before 
demanding admittance. If there should be a porter in 
his box at the entrance door? a porter who would 
question him closely before admitting him. But there 
was no porter visible. The door was closed and the 
shutters drawn, but a streak of light escaping from be- 


90 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

low the door showed that the shop was not untenanted. 
Somebody was at work behind the door, a shopman 
probably. Would it be advisable to knock and demand 
admittance ? After a moment’s hesitancy, Gérard de- 
cided that there was nothing else left for him to do. 
Behind those barred shutters would there be a wel- 
come, or a denunciation ? What sort of a face would 
it be which would appear presently in the doorway, a 
kind or a menacing one? 

Gérard, of course, was unaware that the shopman did 
not sleep in the shop. It was Leroux himself who would 
presently admit him, Leroux, bending over his ledgers 
with face purple with excitement and haggard, blood- 
shot eyes, haunted always by the phantom of approach- 
ing bankruptcy. Were it not for Germaine, the un- 
happy man would have long since put an end to his life, 
.which had become a torture, an unending, unescapable 
torture. But if he were to die now, he would leave her 
poor, alone, friendless, in this great city of Paris — the 
prey of a young libertine like Puyjoli, probably. 

On this very evening, Germaine had descended from 
the apartment above into the shop to bring him his cof- 
fee. She had entreated him to leave his accounts and go 
with her upstairs, as she was lonely without him. He 
had refused, however, and she had remained in the shop 
with him. 

As they sat there, Leroux, raising his face from his 
book and listening attentively, exclaimed suddenly : — 

“ There is somebody knocking at the shop-door.” 

“ It is only the whirring of the clock about to strike, 
father,” she answered gently. 

“ No, no,” he returned impatiently, 41 it is some one 
knocking,” and with the superstition usual to unhappy 


Vincent Leroux. 


9i 

people, with whom any unexpected event may mean a 
change, a pleasant change, Leroux felt a ray of hope 
awaken in his heart, but just now so full of sad fore- 
bodings. He got up quickly from his stool and going 
to the door, undid the bolt and threw it wide open. 

By the light of the lamp which Germaine, who had 
followed him, held in her hand, the figure of a man, 
young and good-looking, was discernible. 

“You are Monsieur Vincent Leroux?” inquired the 
new-comer, as he stepped across the threshold. 

“ That is my name,” was the answer. 

The man turned, and, closing the door behind him 
carefully, said, 

“ I should like a shelter for the night.” 

“ From me ? ” 

“ I have been sent here to you by a member of the 
National Convention, André Thorel. 

“ You are welcome,” returned the other. “ The name 
of Thorel is a sufficient recommendation.” Then, tak- 
ing the lamp from his daughter’s hand, he held it close 
to the stranger’s face, examining it attentively. 

“ Thorel,” continued the other, taking a card from 
his waistcoat pocket, “ sends this card as my creden- 
tials,” as if divining the suspicions which his first words 
must have excited in Leroux’s breast. 

“ He and his colleagues, Girondins, were denounced 
by the Mountain in the Convention to-day. They were 
condemned to arrest at their own homes. To escape ar- 
rest, Thorel was coming to you himself, but, meeting 
me, an old friend, and like him, a proscribed fugitive, 
he sent me in his stead, going himself to seek a shelter 
elsewhere.” 

“ Thorel accused in the Convention, Thorel decreed 


92 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

under arrest at his own house ! ” exclaimed the draper, 
doubting if he had heard aright. 

“ It is only too true. He, the Republican, is now in 
as great peril of his life as I, the Royalist.” 

“ So you are a Royalist,” growled the draper, with a 
sudden frown, “ and yet a friend of Thorel’s ? ” 

“ We have been friends from childhood. We were 
students at the same college.” 

“ A Royalist, a Royalist,” Vincent Leroux continued 
to mutter through his clenched teeth, and with hard looks 
at the new-comer. 

But here Germaine interposed, saying gently : 

“ It is some one in misfortune, father ; one, too, whom 
Citizen Tliorel has sent to us.” 

Leroux gave a little bitter laugh. Was the stranger, 
he thought, any more unfortunate than he, and yet he 
came to be rescued ? B ut, with a brusque gesture, which, 
however, was intended to be courteous, he pointed to a 
chair, saying : 

“You are quite welcome, Citizen, to my house.” 

“ I hardly know how to thank you, Citizen, for the 
service you have done me to-night — nor you either, Made- 
moiselle,” he added, bowing low to her, as he would in 
former days have bent before some lady of the court at 
Versailles. “ You, who have, I think, been the means of 
inducing your father to hold out the hand of welcome 
to a fugitive and a stranger.” These words were spoken 
in the refined tones and the exquisite French which the 
proscribed nobleman could unfortunately not disguise 
even to have saved his handsome head from Sanson’s 
axe. He smiled as he spoke, glancing at her with eyes 
full of admiration and gratitude. 

Germaine, as she listened, was reminded involuntarily 


Vincent Leroux. 


93 

by his words and tone of Puyjoli — Puyjoli, whom she 
loved, and whom, in all probability, she should never see 
again. 

“Have you dined?” she asked, imagining in her 
innocence that a fugitive was likely to be on the verge 
of starvation. 

“ I dined some hours ago, in a little out-of-the-way 
cabaret , with Thorel.” 

Leroux still kept his scowling eyes fixed on this ci- 
devant bandying compliments and fine phrases with his 
daughter. What in the world did Thorel mean by 
sending such an one to him? But, as he had sent him, 
he, Leroux, must put up with his presence at least for 
a night, he supposed. And to the draper, harassed, 
menaced by ruin, it seemed a small thing that the life 
of an idler, a do-nothing like this ex-noble, should be in 
danger. What good was his life to anybody, he thought 
scornfully. 

He, this aristocrat, he heard him telling Germaine, 
had risked his life to come to Paris to see his brother. 
Fine useful lives, both of them — his and his brother’s Î 
And to be obliged to fight, to die even, for one’s faith 
and friends; was that a fate to be deplored? Vincent 
asked himself, scornfully. How gladly he would have 
changed places with him, the draper thought, en- 
viously. 

It was Germaine who noticed presently how weary, 
how broken with fatigue, their guest was, though he 
strove to hide his weariness from them. Going up to 
her father, she inquired in a low tone where he intended 
the stranger to sleep. 

“Here in the shop. The bed which the shopman 
sometimes occupies is a comfortable one, and he will be 


94 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

safer here than in the rooms overhead. No one would 
think of searching for him here. I shall be working 
here for some hours still, and can alarm you if there 
should be any danger.” 

“ A bed anywhere,” returned Monpazier, rising from 
his chair as he spoke, “ and of any kind, will be accept- 
able to me to-night. I think I could sleep sweetly on 
a bare rock.” Then, turning to Germaine, he added in 
those tones of mingled sweetness and sadness, which 
awakened in her recollections at once so sweet and 
bitter, “ when I was happy and fortunate, when I was a 
child, Mademoiselle, my nurse used to tell me of beau- 
tiful and kind fairies which I implicitly believed in 
then, and now I return again to my childish beliefs, for, 
more fortunate than when I was a child, I have to- 
night beheld a kind and beneficent fairy.” 

This compliment, high-flown, even a little ridiculous 
perhaps, did not sound so to the blushing recipient of 
it. 

Monpazier — an hour ago she had never heard the 
name ; now it seemed to her as if she and the bearer of 
it had known each other all their lives. 

“ Monsieur de Monpazier,” she repeated to herself 
as she climbed the narrow, dark, winding staircase lead- 
ing from the shop to the apartment above. “If I had 
ever heard Monsieur de Puyjoli speak of a brother, I 
should certainly think this gentleman were he, his elder 
brother. The resemblance too, between them, is strik- 
ing. They must be related. I shall ask Monsieur 
de Monpazier, when I see him to-morrow, if he does not 
know Monsieur de Puyjoli. How strange it would be 
to find out that Monsieur de Puyjoli was the brother 
hç had risked his life to see,” She entered her chain- 


Vincent Leroux. 95 

ber and closed lier door after her. The next moment 
she had forgotten the existence of both Monpazier and 
Puyjoli, so full of anxiety was her heart for her father, 
driven to desperation at the approach of ruin at once 
so terrible and so undeserved. 


96 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 


CHAPTER VII. 

PUYJOLI’S SECOND OF JUNE. 

During those days of riot and tumult which proved 
so disastrous to the fate of the Girondins in the National 
Convention, Puyjoli wandered about the streets of 
Paris, a prey to strange and conflicting emotions. 

His curiosity was awakened by the strange scenes 
around him, while to curiosity was added anger and 
disgust at the disorder which he witnessed on every 
side. He joined himself to the groups at the street 
corners and listened to the talk of the frequenters of 
the cabarets and gardens. 

He was as much entertained by the spectacle fur- 
nished him by a Parisian mob as he had formerly been 
at the theatres. He gazed searchingly at the deputies 
from the Sections as they marched by on their way to 
the Convention. 

This handsome, gallant young nobleman would, 
moreover, gladly have exchanged his tall, slender 
figure, his hair of gold and his complexion of milk 
and roses, for the brawny figures and brown, hairy 
visages of one of these stalwart citizens. 

“Mademoiselle de Louverchal would probably not 
have said ‘No,’” he sighed, “if I had been fortunate 
enough to look like one of those sturdy rascals.” 

Then he remembered suddenly that the Marquis 
and his daughter would not even in the recesses of 


Puyjoli’s Second of June. 97 

their hôtel in the Rue Mirabeau, he able to shut out 
the booming of the cannon, the tolling of La Géné- 
rale, and the chanting of La Marseillaise in the streets 
outside. 

They would be very much frightened, and Puyjoli’s 
first thought was to go to them and endeavour to reas- 
sure them. He had obeyed Migrayon’s entreaties not to 
return to his lodgings. There were several other asy- 
lums, however, of which he had the choice. 

Sophie Clerval passed for a good patriot, and Sophie 
would have received him with open arms. He decided 
however, to reserve this place of refuge for the last, 
beautiful as the arms held out to welcome him unde- 
niably were. 

But, though not at all disquieted as to his own fate, 
he was devoured with anxiety about his brother’s. Why 
in the world had Monpazier quitted his refuge in Lon- 
don just at this moment when his presence in France 
was useless to his party and highly dangerous to him- 
self? 

“ My poor brother,” he murmured under his breath, 
with an involuntary shudder, as the thought occurred to 
him suddenly that if by any chance Monpazier should 
be arrested, his fate would be no doubtful one. 

He endeavoured to comfort himself, however, with the 
thought that Gérard would have as a protector and 
friend, a member of the National Convention. He 
found relief, too, in the thought that he should be able 
now to see his brother. Clotilde had given him the 
address of her house. The knowledge that in this great, 
unquiet city of Paris, Gérard would be able to find a 
corner to lay his proscribed head and fugitive body was 
a blissful one to his brother. 

7 


98 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ Protected by one of our rulers and law-givers, he is 
certainly safe,” — he told himself. 

So thinking, Puyjoli found himself at the door of the 
Marquis’s hôtel. It was only after repeated knockings 
that the door was opened slightly, and a trembling 
voice demanded from behind it : 

“ Who is there ? ” 

“ Viscount Puyjoli,” returned the visitor ; the porter 
Bonnemain from inside the door turned pale with terror 
at hearing it. 

“Ah, it is you, Citizen Puyjoli. Enter.” And the 
portal was opened wide enough to allow Puyjoli to pass 
through it. At the sight of Bonnemain’s livid, con- 
vulsed countenance, Puyjoli burst out laughing. 

“ Upon my word, Bonnemain, your face is as livid as 
that of a corpse.” 

The porter’s face lengthened visibly at this ominous 
word. 

“ Your face is as green as a drowned man’s.” 

Strange to say, this comparison of Puyjoli’s restored 
the porter’s courage a little. A drowned corpse is not 
a headless one. 

“ My face is green, is it, Monsieur le Vicomte ? Ah, 
you may well laugh at mine when yours remains always 
as fresh as a rose, as rosy as a ripe apple.” 

It was now Puyjoli’s turn to be annoyed. He 
frowned slightly as he answered, 

“ Ah, Bonnemain, spare me, I beg of you, your odious 
comparisons. It is quite as annoying for a man to have 
his face compared to a flower as to a fruit. Besides, 
your manner of speech is old-fashioned and provincial, 
my Bonnemain ; yon should change it for the speech 
current of the Republicans here about you. You will 


Puyjoli’s Second of June. 99 

draw down suspicions upon your head if you do not. 
Roses and lilies are emblems of royalty, of which a 
citizen of France should know nothing. Monsieur le 
Marquis, is he to be seen, do you know ? ” 

“ Monsieur le Marquis sees nobody, you know well, 
Monsieur le Vicomte.” 

“ But I — I am somebody, Bonnemain, and he will 
see me, I know. Announce me, if you please, to the 
Marquis and Mademoiselle de Louverchal.” 

Bonnemain had shown the Viscount, after they had 
crossed the court-yard, into a little drawing-room on the 
ground floor. There, upon seating himself, he found 
himself confronted by the charming pastel portrait of 
Bertha, which he had first seen at Perigueux. 

Puyjoli, still a victim to sudden and sporadic attacks 
of his former timidity, felt his heart beat violently at 
the sight of this counter-presentment of his lady-love, 
as it had done on the first time of his seeing it. He 
seemed to hear ringing in his ears again, the bright 
clear laughter of the young girl, which had accompanied 
her refusal on that day to marry him. And as he 
looked again, it almost seemed to him that, underneath 
the smiles, he could detect a faint expression of melan- 
choly on the pictured face before him. How many 
changes there had been in him and in everything about 
him since that day when he, a boy at Perigueux, had 
gone as wooer to this girl. 

He was quite satisfied now that Bertha had not ac- 
cepted him then. It was right and meet that the man 
she deigned to love should put it to the touch to gain 
or lose his all to win her. Some day he would win 
her. “ To-day, or ten years from now. At Paris or at 
Peking, she shall yet be mine.” 


ioo Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

Just here the Marquis, clad in the same flowered 
dressing-gown he had worn on that eventful morning 
at Périgord, attended by Bonnemain, as pale as Bonne- 
main, as terrified as Bonnemain, came into the room. 

“ Ah, ah,” the worthy nobleman greeted his visitor, 
vainly endeavouring to appear at ease. “ What has 
happened? What new misfortune have you come to 
an-an-ann ounce to me?” 

“ I came simply to re-assure you.” 

“ To re-assure me ? ” 

“ Yes. I know you dislike noise and clamour, and on 
hearing the beating of the drums and that confounded 
alarm-bell, I came to keep you company, and to tell you 
this tumult and uproar, unlike those we have been 
favoured with lately, need not concern us. The wolves 
have begun to rend one another.” 

The Marquis gazed with stupefaction at the fresh, 
smiling face of his visitor. 

“ Do you know,” he exclaimed abruptly, “ that I ad- 
mire you immensely, my dear Viscount?” 

“ Admire me ! What in the world do you find to 
admire in me, I should like to know ? ” 

“ Because you are simply superb in your imperturba- 
bility. Nothing troubles you. You live in Paris in 
a time of Revolution as happy and careless as a fish 
in water.” 

“It amuses me,” replied Puyjoli, “ and it is a means 
of distraction to me, who would otherwise find the time 
dull whilst waiting for Mademoiselle de Louverchal to 
make up her mind to marry me.” 

The Marquis shook his head despairingly. 

“ Oh, do not speak of her any more, Viscount. I am 
in despair about her. I have always desired the mar- 


IOI 


Puyjoli’s Second of June. 

riage, as you know. I have been a sincere partizan of 
yours. But Bertha — one can do nothing with her, and 
remembering (not to speak harshly) what her mother’s, 
my late wife’s disposition was, I am not, I confess, sur- 
prised at the obstinacy of my daughter. When I think 
that if Bertha had married you years ago, as any sensi- 
ble girl would have been glad to do, we should now 
all of us be in safety, miles away from this fiery furnace 
of a Paris, I am out of all patience with the obstinate, 
silly girl.” 

Gaston laughed. 

“I assure you, my dear Marquis, that you quite 
calumniate Paris. Paris is decidedly interesting now- 
a-days. You should go out ” 

“ Go out ! ” screamed Monsieur de Louverchal, panic- 
stricken at the idea. 

“ Go to the theatres, to the opera. There is no place 
so bewitching, so intoxicating in its charm as Paris. 
One would risk one’s life, Marquis, to kiss the hand of 
a mistress one adored. And Paris, Marquis, is dear to 
me as the woman I love. I adore Paris.” 

“ To risk one’s life for a woman is all very well, but 
to imperil one’s head for a town — that is nonsense.” 

“ For a city in which lives the loveliest, the dearest 
of her sex,” returned Puyjoli, with a gesture toward 
Bertha’s portrait. 

“ Then you are still as much in love with ” 

“With Paris.” 

“ The devil take Paris. You know very well that I 
am talking of my daughter.” 

“ Once is always,” returned Puyjoli, whose gay voice 
had grown suddenly serious. 

“But if such is the case, my dear Viscount, why 


102 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

do yon advertise so boldly your connection with an 
actress ? ” 

“With an actress — where did you hear that?” 

The Marquis hesitated. He looked carefully around 
to see if Bonnemain were anywhere within hearing, 
but the porter had vanished. He had gone, probably, 
to announce the Viscount’s visit to his young mistress. 

“You understand,” continued M. de Louverchal, sat- 
isfied that no one was within hearing, “ that I am not 
finding any fault with you. If you choose to take 
under your protection one of these ladies of the stage, 
that is entirely your own affair ; but since the new 
régime in Paris, the newspapers busy themselves with 
a gentleman’s private affairs in a devilishly unpleasant 
manner. These damned newspapers ” 

“I never read them,” Puyjoli interrupted him. 

“There you are wrong, my dear young friend. I 
have them bought for me and read them regularly. 
They make my blood run cold when I read them, but 
they keep me posted in what is going on around us. 
And in one of these newspapers I read it, and so did 
my daughter. There was a paragraph asserting that 
you were the favourite and fortunate lover of Sophie 
Clerval, one of the actresses of the Théâtre de la 
Nation.” 

“ Clerval — the name was given in full, then ? ” 

“ It was, indeed.” 

“ When did you see this ? ” 

“ Only a day or two ago. Bertha saw it, too, and I 
fancy was annoyed at it, though she said nothing.” 

“ Do you think so indeed ? ” inquired Puyjoli eagerly. 

“ She was extremely annoyed at it. But you really 
seem pleased to hear it.” 


Puyjoli’s Second of June. 103 

“I am indeed.” 

“Why?” 

“Because it shows me that Mademoiselle de Lou- 
verchal is no longer indifferent to me, and anger is 
easier for a lover to endure than indifference. What 
did the newspapers have to say about my connection 
with Sophie?” 

“ She was reproached by the paragrapher, an ardent 
Jacobin, I should imagine, for her liaison with a ci- 
devant. Your name, too, was printed out at length. 
It appears that your fair friend has just had the right 
of citizenship conferred upon her by the Commune.” 

“ Ah, now I understand why I have been denounced 
before that honourable body.” 

“ Then you have been denounced before the Com- 
mune ? ” 

“ Certainly ; and in consequence of this denunciation 
I shall not, for some time at least, venture to return to 
my apartment.” 

The face of the Marquis grew livid with fear at these 
words of his visitor. 

“ Denounced,” he muttered faintly. 

“Indeed, my dear Marquis, I am only surprised that 
our friends the Jacobins have been so slow about it.” 

“You are mad.” 

“No, only bored. But, after all, that is almost the 
same thing, for a man who is bored is really capable of 
as great an act of folly as one who is beside himself. 
There is one thing he is incapable of, that of endanger- 
ing the safety or destroying the peace of mind of his 
friends. And that is the reason I have come here to 
tell you that my visits, after to-day, must for a time, at 
least, cease altogether.” 


104 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

The unhappy Marquis was really put in a sad 
dilemma by these words of the Viscount’s. Honour 
whispered to him that he should at once offer his house 
place of refuge to his friend, but fear paralyzed as a 
his tongue and kept him mute. 

The Viscount perceived the embarrassment of the 
other. He smiled slightly, and was beginning to say 
something to reassure his unhappy friend, when the 
door opened and Bertha, fair, fresh, smiling, entered 
the room. In a simple gown of flowered chintz, her 
hair unpowdered and bound with blue ribbons, she 
looked a very shepherdess of Trianon. She held out a 
little hand in welcome to Puyjoli. He bowed low over 
it, pressing it to his lips. 

“You are a rare visitor to us, Viscount,” she said, 
with a charming little muoe. 

“ Indeed, Mademoiselle ; but whose fault is it ? Had 
I my way, I should never be separated from you.” 

u To be always with us. Ah, I fear you would find 
our society very dull, and in a short time seek an 
excuse to fly to those friends more congenial to 
you.” 

He could not help understanding in her words an 
allusion to Sophie Clerval, though, to do Bertha justice, 
she had no idea that he would do so. The Marquis, 
however, was ill at ease, and reproached himself for 
having spoken to Puyjoli about the gossip in the news- 
paper concerning him and the actress. How reckless, 
too, was Bertha to allude to the rarity of Puyjoli’s 
visits. A man proscribed and a fugitive should have 
known better than to have come at all, imperilling their 
lives for an idle whim. 

Puyjoli, quick-witted enough to divine the Marquis’s 


Puyjoli’s Second of June. 105 

disquietude, hastened to relieve it by saying a few 
words of farewell. 

His heart beat high with hope on perceiving that 
Bertha’s face paled perceptibly as he said : 

“ It will probably be a long time before I shall again 
have the pleasure of seeing you.” Yes, there was no 
doubt of it ; the lovely face, usually so mischievous and 
mutinous, grew pale and wan at the words. 

“I hope, Viscount,” the marquis said falteringly, 
“ I — hope — you — will — manage — to let us know — how — 
things — go with you ? ” 

“ I shall always manage to know how it fares with 
you. As for me, who cares really what becomes of me ? ” 

“ You calumniate your friends,” exclaimed Bertha, 
hastily, and laying a stress on the last word, “when 
you accuse them of heartlessness or indifference toward 
you.” 

“ Ah, Mademoiselle, you make me very happy by 
telling me that I have friends who care for me. As for 
me, I confess I should be only too happy if I could 
hope that one of these days some Republican bullet or 
sword-thrust in my face would render it less displeasing 
in your bright eyes. If some patriot should cut off 
my nose, now, you would not refuse me again, would 
you?” 

He bowed low to Bertha, whose pallor had given way 
to blushes as he continued to speak, held out his hand 
to the Marquis, and quitted the room. 

Bonnemain conducted him through the court-yard, 
evidently not a little relieved to see the last of him. 

Puyjoli, in thinking it over, was not ill-satisfied with 
his interview with Bertha that day. It was evident 
that she was beginning to care for him. “ Ah, woman, 


io6 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

woman,” thought Puyjoli, when he found himself in 
thp street once more. “Figaro is right when he 
declares that it is only by wounding your vanity that a 
man can gain the mastery over you. Is she beginning 
to feel jealous of my devotion to Sophie ? Ah, if she , 
did but know that I would not give one hair of her 
dear head for all Sophie’s devotion ! But what do the 
newspapers mean by bandying my name about in their 
pages — I, who never look at them ? ” 

He now determined to go and pay a visit to Sophie. 
The hôtel she occupied in the Place Vendôme, Section 
des Piques was not far off. He arrived there to find 
Pluche on the door-steps before him. 

“ Ah, Citizen Pluche, I have caught you. You, too, 
come to pay court to this divinity who makes us all bow 
the knee to her.” 

Nicholas smiled, but in a half-hearted way ; he was 
pale and seemed anxious. 

“ I have come to bring Citizeness Clerval the rôle for 
which she is cast in the new play,” he answered, 
gravely. 

“Pray do not seek to excuse your coming here, 
Pluche, I am no jealous lover, as you have probably dis- 
covered by this time. We two have always been good 
friends, eh ? ” 

“ Ah, Monsieur — Citizen — Viscount, is there any need 
for your asking a question like that ? ” 

“ And you still have a corner in your house where 
you will stow away a good-for-nothing aristocrat if the 
danger should grow too threatening for him, eh ? ” 

“ Always. Our roof will be honoured by your pres- 
ence if you deign to seek its shelter, and Babet, I assure 
you, is a capital cook.” 


Puyjoli’s Second of June. 107 

Puyjoli grasped thankfully the hand of this brave 
little man, so really, simply heroic, without being in the 
least conscious of his heroism. 

“ The day when Sophie Clerval closes her door 
against me, I shall come to you. Remember that, 
Citizen Pluche.” 

“ You will be welcome, Cit — , Monsieur le — ,” and 
Pluche seemed to be seeking vainly for a title, some- 
thing that should be a happy compromise between the 
proscribed title and the word citizen, which he knew 
must be odious in Puyjoli’s ears. 

“ You have not bit it, Pluche,” exclaimed Puyjoli, 
laughingly. “ The best title you can give me is that of 
friend. But now a truce to parleying. Let Us ascend 
to Citizen Clerval’s apartment.” 

“After you, Mons — , Citizen.” 

“ Friend , friend ,” Puyjoli interrupted him impa- 
tiently. 

Pluche, who had left Médard and his flute waiting 
for him at home, his errand finished, went off speedily, 
leaving Puyjoli and the actress alone together. 

“ He is a brave man, a hero — Citizen Pluche,” ex- 
claimed Puyjoli, as he stood at the window, gazing 
after the retreating form of the prompter. “ The spirit 
of an ancient Roman lingers in that small, fat body of 
his. He has offered to take me to his house and hide 
me there when your friends, the Jacobins, leave me 
without a hole to lay my proscribed head in. And he 
is quite unconcerned that, by doing so, he risks his own 
life, in all probability.” 

“But really, Gaston, you are too foolhardy,” ex- 
claimed Sophie, with her eyes full of love, gazing at 
his beautiful countenance. “ It is the act of a madman 


io8 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

to behave as you have been doing. You cannot expect 
to have escaped denunciation before the Tribunal. You 
have made yourself notorious by your conduct at the 
theatre, and you must take the consequences.” 

“ Yes, the newspapers have made me a subject of 
their comments, and you, too, Mademoiselle, if you 
please. You have been reproached by them for taking 
a ci-devant for your lover. I fear I have endangered 
your peace and comfort too, Sophie, forgive me, dear.” 

She threw herself down on her knees before him, 
and, taking in her white hands his, as white as her 
own, and laying her beautiful head on his shoulder, 
answered : 

“ What does it matter ? As if you could compromise 
me! I would throw myself into the fire to save you. 
I would cast my reputation to the four winds of heaven 
for your sake. Unhappily, however, it was all torn 
and rent in pieces before I ever set eyes on you. 
Foolish boy, you compromise me ! ” 

“ As a patriot, as a Republican.” 

“ Bah, my patriotism, my love for my country, is 
a small thing compared with my love for you. But it 
is true you are so foolhardy, you exasperate me so that, 
if it were possible, I should have cast you off long ago, 
to throw myself into the arms ” 

“ Of Danton, of Robespierre, probably.” 

“ Well, after all, they are in the right. It was time 
for France to break the chains with which you aristo- 
crats had bound her hand and foot. Of those rights 
and privileges you assumed, you nobles, you have been 
rightfully despoiled.” 

“ On the tenth of August last, a charming day it 
was too, I am not likely to forget it — you need not re- 


Puyjoli’s Second of June. 109 

mind me of it, Sophie. When you talk as you are do- 
ing, you make me think you have been taking some 
lessons of Citizeness Theraigu, and I prefer you as you 
are, my dear.” 

“ Oh,” she exclaimed, throwing herself into his arms, 
“I did not mean one word of what I have just been 
saying. I11 all the world there is no one else I care 
for but you. You have bewitched me with your beauty, 
I think, Gaston.” 

He untwined her arms with a gesture of distaste. 
She was not too slow to remark that by her last words 
she had displeased him. 

“ I know you despise your beauty, Gaston, and care 
nothing for your life. Why, tell me ? ” 

He gave her no answer, and, after a pause she went 
on seriously : 

“ I am sorry your imprudence has caused you to be 
proscribed by the Commune. And then, too, the news- 
papers having coupled our names together renders it 
impossible for me to hide you here. In spite of my 
reputation as a good patriot, here would be the first 
place they would come to search for you, Gaston.” 

“ But it is extremely pleasant for me to be here, and 
you mean to put me out at the door ! ” he exclaimed 
smiling. He had thrown himself down on a couch, 
and was stretched at full length on it with his hands 
above his head. He looked down silently at the girl 
who was kneeling on the floor beside him. 

“ Of what are you thinking ? ” she asked wonder- 
ingly, after a silence of some moments. 

“ Oh, of nothing — of you.” 

“ How complimentary ! ” she retorted. “ But as you 
have spoken the truth, I must forgive you, I suppose,” 


no Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

she added, rising to her feet as she spoke. “ If you are 
in the mood to do me a favour, hear me recite my rôle. 
Here is the manuscript Pluche has just brought. See, 
he has marked all those parts which I have to learn.” 
She held out the roll of paper toward him, saying, 

“You must not forget to applaud me now and then, 
to encourage me, you know.” 

“ I shall not. Let me see, where is it you begin ? ” 

Sophie, planting herself directly in front of him, be- 
gan declaiming fluently, 

“‘Ah, too charming Valcour, the sight of you has 
awakened again in me all those emotions so fatal to my 
peace.’ Do not look at me, you put me out. What 
eyes you have ! Bright as stars ! Drop your lids and 
let me go on with the speech. ‘ The groves know of 
my sighs, my tears. On the barks of these trees I have 
engraved these words — ‘Valcour is my heart’s choice, 
and with Valcour’s fate ’ ” 

“ It is ‘ destiny’ here,” interrupted Gaston. 

“What?” 

“ It is not * fate,’ it is ‘ destiny.’ The writer prob- 
ably thinks it a more ‘ noble ’ word.” 

“Noble ! ” she exclaimed saucily, “ There is no such 
word in the dictionaries now-a-days. The Republicans 
have expunged it, most noble Viscount. Kiss me. 
You prompt very well. I like you better even than 
Pluche. So there is a career left open to you, that of 
prompter, my dear ci-devant. But I must go on with 
my work.” 

“ ‘ What joy, what bliss, my Valcour ’ Ah, bah, 

I have had enough of Valcour,” and, taking the man- 
uscript from Puyjoli’s hand, she cast it contemptuously 
on a table. “ How cold, how stilted are these mimic 


Ill 


Puyjoli’s Second of June. 

loves of the theatre, compared to a living, burning, 
passionate love like ours, Gaston.” 

He made no answer. It was not in his heart to tell 
her that, though she loved him, his love was all given 
to a woman who had scorned, rejected and laughed at 
him. 

This was the way in which Puyjoli passed that mem- 
orable Sunday which saw the downfall of the Giron- 
dins. At the approach of evening he felt an irresistible 
desire to see his brother once more. “ I cannot rest,” 
he told himself, “until I know he is in safety. An 
émigré ! That is one for whom death lurks at every 
street-corner here in Paris. What on earth possessed 
him to come here ! He should have rather gone straight 
on to La Vendée. Let me see, Citizen Thorel lives in 
the Rue Vieux Augustins. JEn avant for Citizen 
Thorel’s, then ! ” 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 


X 12 


CHAPTER VIII. 

GOLD. 

After Germaine had left the shop, Vincent Leroux 
pointed out to Monpazier the recess where the shop- 
man’s bed was hidden. Germaine had put fresh linen 
on it, which gave the couch, small and narrow though 
it was, a delicious appearance in the eyes of the way- 
worn and wearied fugitive. 

“ I am afraid you will be very uncomfortable,” 
Leroux said mechanically, hardly knowing what he 
said. 

“ I, a soldier — oh, I shall sleep the sleep of a child. 
Ah, my dear host, how shall I ever repay you for your 
kindness toward me ? ” 

“ You owe me no thanks,” returned the draper, “ I 
have done what I did for Citizen Thorel’s sake, not 
yours.” 

Monpazier made no answer. “ You permit me ? ” 
he said presently, beginning to take off his coat. He 
undressed himself, heaving sighs of satisfaction. The 
sighs of a man completely broken by fatigue. 

“ I only ask one night’s sleep, one good night’s sleep ; 

I have not had one now for a week. After that ” 

he stopped suddenly, having let his belt drop on the 
floor of the shop. The clank of metal was plainly au- 
dible. Some rolls of gold which had fallen out of the 


Gold. 


m 

belt bad come undone, and some pieces rolled out upon 
the floor. 

“ How awkward of me,” he exclaimed, annoyed. 

At the sound of the metal, Vincent, who had turned 
his back on Monpazier, turned round suddenly, and 
staring at his guest with bloodshot eyes, exclaimed 
involuntarily, 

“ Gold, you have gold about you ! ” 

Monpazier, who had knelt down on the floor and 
was picking up the straying gold pieces, answered 
laughingly : 

“ Yes, I have all the fortune here that remains to me. 
I would have handed it over to you to keep for me, 
Citizen Leroux, but, living as I do, not knowing where 
I may lay my head to-morrow, it is well to keep my 
money about me. Gold — it may be my salvation in 
times like these. I am like that sage of old, you know, 
Omina mecum portn ! ” 

Of all these words which the count had been saying, 
the draper had only remarked one, “ my fortune.” So 
this man carried about with him a fortune ! 

This gold, which fell upon the floor of the shop, the 
master of which was menaced by ruin, was the property 
of this stranger, who, in these times of death and mis- 
ery, gaily traversed the city, carrying a fortune hidden 
about his person. Imprudent? He was a madman, 
this Monpazier! 

The draper had intended to return once more to his 
desk and his ledger. Now he dared no longer remain 
in the same room with the stranger. 

“ Good-night,” he said roughly, and, taking a lamp in 
bis hand, he ascended the stairs to his apartment. 

He walked with his eyes fixed before him, seeing 
8 


1 14 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

always the yellow shimmer of the gold. As he went 
past his daughter’s chamber, he stopped outside the 
door and called, softly, 

“ Germaine ! ” 

“ Father ! ” 

“You are not yet in bed, my child?” he inquired 
with anxious tenderness. 

“ I have been reading.” She opened her door slightly, 
her beautiful face peeped out from the aperture. She 
smiled slightly as her father, bending down, imprinted 
a kiss on her forehead. 

“ Go to bed and to sleep, I beg of you.” 

“ But you, father, will not you go to bed too ? It is 
late,” she added anxiously. “ You will kill yourself 
sitting over those dreary books night after night. Poor 
father ! ” 

“ You are right, I am going to bed. I came up-stairs 
to do so. Good-night.” 

“ Good-night, dear father.” 

He entered his own chamber. His throat felt parched 
and hot with burning, raging fever. Going to the din- 
ing-room, he looked about on the buffet for something 
to quench his thirst. The blood rushed to his head, 
there was a ringing noise in his ears — a noise like the 
clanking of falling gold pieces on a brick floor. A for- 
tune — a fortune, the words seemed to be whispered all 
around him. “ A fortune,” he muttered between his 
teeth, the blood rushing to his eyeballs. 

Gérard de Monpazier meanwhile had stretched him- 
self out luxuriously on his hard, narrow bed. A de- 
licious sense of rest, of peace, of safety, filled his heart 
and brain. He lay in a state between sleep and wak- 
ing, recalling the incidents of the day just past — his 


Gold. 


ii5 

visit to his brother — his meeting with his friend — his 
coming to the draper’s shop. Was Thorel in a place of 
safety, he wondered. His thoughts, wandering hither 
and thither, returned again to his surroundings. 

This man Leroux, what a rough, uncompromising 
Jacobin he was. What a grudging hospitality — this of 
his — hut his daughter — how fair, how lovely, how kind. 
Murmuring the name Germaine under his breath, he 
smiled dreamily. How well the name suited her grave, 
pensive beauty. Here, throwing up his hand above his 
head, his fingers touched the pistol lying on his pillow. 
And so, with his hand clutching the pistol, the fugitive 
dropped off into a heavy, dreamless sleep. 

Above, Leroux paced restlessly up and down the 
dining-room. “It is extraordinary, how thirsty I am,” 
he said, taking down a decanter of brandy from the 
buffet, pouring out and gulping down a glassful. The 
fiery liquid- coursed through his veins, setting his brain 
on fire. He was, however, in such a fever that the 
brandy appeared cold to him. He poured out a second 
glass, and threw himself down heavily into a chair. 
There his thoughts resumed their former course. 

Who knew if that man sleeping down in the shop be- 
low, had not lied when he affirmed that he had been 
sent by Thorel. If he were no friend of Thorel’s ” 

Here Leroux sprang up from his chair and poured 
himself out a third glass of brandy. By a rapid pro- 
gression of thought, from suspecting Monpazier, he 
now began to accuse him. He is certainly a traitor, a 
spy, an emissary of Pitt, and well furnished with gold 
by the English to prosecute his nefarious designs 
against the Republic. It is that gold which was paid 
for by the blood of Frenchmen, probably. Ah, that 


ii6 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

gold, gold — and again in the ears of the unhappy man, 
menaced with ruin, a voice whispered persistently, “ A 
fortune, a fortune.” 

’Twas something more than a fortune ; it was life, 
salvation, to the merchant threatened with bankruptcy. 
He approached the buffet again and swallowed another 
glass of brandy, and another, and another, in rapid 
succession. 

His face was now swollen and inflamed, his eyes pro- 
truding, great drops of sweat rolled down his cheeks. 
He spoke aloud in thick, savage tones : 

“ And this fortune is in the hands of a man under 
sentence of death, yes, of death. His would be but a 
short shrift, were he to fall into the hands of the Jaco- 
bins.” Still the unhappy man made one last despairing 
effort to struggle against temptation. 

“Suppose you go to this aristocrat — he professed 
gratitude to you for saving his life — and tell him your 
troubles. He would, perhaps, not refuse to help you. 
Here I have excited myself quite needlessly about what 
is only a simple matter of business. I will go to him 
now, and tell him what a plight I am in.” He swal- 
lowed another glass of brandy to give him courage to 
confess his necessity to this young man, a stranger. 
By this time, between his excitement and the brandy 
he had drunk, he was really quite beside himself. One 
idea had taken possession of his fuddled, muddled brain, 
one idea to the exclusion of every other. He must 
have that money. He must be saved from ruin. A 
loan would save him ; then a loan he must have. Ah, 
a famous idea it was, he chuckled foolishly, for Thorel 
to send a ci-devant here with a fortune to save me. He 
threw back his head resolutely, and, taking the lamp 


Gold. 


117 

in his hand descended the staircase to the shop. Once 
he stopped in his descent. He thought he heard his 
daughter moving about in her room. “ It is for her 
sake that I am going to do this,” he muttered, and then 
went on again. 

And now he no longer accused and denounced Mon- 
pazier to himself. His guest in his eyes was no longer 
a spy, a traitor, he would be a friend, a saviour to him 
in this time of necessity. 

He smiled. His head no longer burned and throbbed 
and ached. He felt quite confident and happy as he 
reeled heavily into the shop where Gérard lay sleeping 
the heavy sleep of an utterly wearied-out man. 

Leroux put down the lamp and bent over the sleeper. 

“ He sleeps sound,” he murmured. “ Better not 
wake him. Why not leave it till the morrow ? ” The 
thought, however, occurred to him that Monpazier in 
his haste to be off, might, if he awoke early, leave with- 
out waiting to bid his host farewell, and as he had come 
down to ask assistance of his guest, why not have it 
over now ? 

“ He can sleep afterward, and I too,” he muttered. 
Leroux was, from the brandy he had swallowed, no 
longer conscious of what he intended to do or say. One 
thought alone overshadowed all others. To awake the 
sleeper and tell him what he desired of him. 

He placed the lamp on a counter, and walking heavily, 
he approached the bed. The noise did not awaken the 
weary man. Leroux coughed once or twice in hopes 
of arousing him. Monpazier, worn out with fatigue, 
still continued to sleep. The draper now leant over 
him and looked down at him intently. Over the face 
of the sleeper a spasm of pain passed suddenly. Some 


ïi8 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

unquiet dream, it was plain, haunted the pillow of the 
fugitive. Leroux, smiling the imbecile smile of an in- 
toxicated man, knelt down by the bedside. 

His shadow, immensely exaggerated in the lamplight, 
was projected grotesquely across the bed and on the 
wall beyond. Bending over Monpazier, Leroux laid 
his hand heavily on his breast. 

The next moment he was startled and astonished by 
the brusque and violent movement made by the other 
at his touch. Awaking with a sharp cry of terror, and 
raising himself up and seeing the huge shadow of 
some one unknown bending over him, Gérard, only 
half awake, cried : 

“Who is there? Villain, what are you here for?” 
And, drawing his pistol from under his pillow, placed 
it close up to the breast of the disturber of his sleep and 
pulled the trigger. 

The weapon was held so tightly against Leroux’s 
breast that it did not go off, simply flashing in his 
face. Then followed a horrible struggle between 
Gérard, and, as it seemed to him, this unknown mon- 
ster who had attacked him in his sleep. Monpazier 
succeeded in struggling into a sitting posture and 
clutching his antagonist with both hands by the collar, 
endeavoured, but in vain, to throw his assailant to one 
side, and spring out of the bed. 

Leroux, irritated and frenzied by the reception, 
quite unlooked-for, that his endeavour to awake Mon- 
pazier had met with, placed one knee on the other’s 
chest, and grasped the throat of the young man with 
both of his gigantic hands. 

He was by this time quite beside himself. He held 
his victim’s throat in a grasp of iron, his nails sinking 


Gold. 


119 

deep into the flesh. The other struggled violently, 
but in vain, to free himself from this murderous grasp. 
His face grew black, his eyeballs protruded from their 
sockets, his tongue hung far out of his mouth. The 
cruel hands did not release their hold, the heavy knee 
pressed down firmer and firmer on his struggling, con- 
vulsed form, convulsed in the agonies of strangulation. 
Leroux, infuriated by the brandy and the thought 
that his victim had drawn a pistol upon him, gazed 
down cruelly, exultantly, on the blackened visage, 
the writhing figure. He muttered between his teeth : 

“ Defend yourself, would you draw a pistol on an 
unarmed man ; would you, you villain ! ” 

While still holding Monpazier’s throat, his naked 
foot, from which the slipper had dropped off, came in 
contact with a bit of metal. It was one of the louis d’or 
dropped by Gérard a few hours previously. The touch 
of the gold seemed to awaken him from his frenzy. He 
took his knee off Gerard’s breast slowly. When he dis- 
engaged his hands from the throat, the body fell back 
with a dull thud on the pillow and lay there quite 
motionless. The purple face, the protruding tongue, 
the eyes starting from their sockets, a horrid spectacle 
in the dim rays of the lamp. 

Leroux gazed down at it wonderingly. “What is 
it ? What has happened ? ” he asked himself. He 
bent down over the body and touched it. Lifting it up 
in his arms, he shook it once or twice, laid his ear on 
the chest, then let it drop back again on the bed shud- 
dering. Had he killed this man, his guest, André 
Thorel’s friend ? Oh, no, no, it could not be ! He was 
not dead ! Men do not die so easily. A soldier, too, 
who had faced death in battle a thousand times. He 


120 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

could not be killed in another man’s naked hands. 
Strangled to death in his bed ! Impossible ! 

Again Leroux threw himself down on his knees 
by the side of the bed, searching wildly for some signs 
of life in the form before him. 

In vain ! The protruding eyes stared at him blankly 
out of a blackened, disfigured visage. There were the 
marks of the cruel, clutching fingers on the throat. 
Head ! Yes, he was quite dead. No doubt of that. 

“ A murderer — an assassin ! ” Leroux repeated the 
words again and again to himself, softly. Something, 
too, seemed to whisper it in the air around, above, about 
him. His face, but a moment before purple with frenzy, 
was now livid with terror. He shook in every limb; 
the cold sweat rolled in great drops down his pale 
cheeks. He was quite sober by this time. Whispering 
hoarsely : 

“ Great God ! Am I a murderer ? ” he threw himself 
face downward on the body of his victim. Placing his 
mouth against the blue, livid lips, he strove to breathe 
life through them into the cold, still form. In vain, a 
corpse lay stretched out before him. 

As he knelt there in an agony of remorse and horror, 
his hand suddenly touched the belt containing the 
rouleaux of gold which was buckled around the waist of 
the murdered man, and his face lighted up suddenly 
with an expression of satisfied greed and brutal joy. 

The fortune of this man was in his hands. There 
would be no one to claim it. The gold — it was his now. 
Gold — it was bliss to touch it, to handle it, to know it 
was his own. 

And now it was no longer a man, remorseful, repent- 
ant, who knelt there, but a fiend exulting in the touch 


Gold. 


12 1 


of gold, as a tiger exults in the taste of blood. He took 
off the belt and broke open one of the rouleaux. How 
the bright metal glittered in the lamplight. With eyes 
full of greed he gazed long and exultantly at the coins, 
caressing them with his thick, heavy fingers. The 
caress — the touch of a thief and a robber. He saw 
nothing now but the gold. He forgot the stark, stiff 
figure on the bed. He was unconscious that the door 
leading from the shop, at the foot of the winding stair- 
case, was pushed open, and that a woman’s face, white 
with horror, was looking in through the aperture at him 
as he knelt there, plunging his hand into the pile of 
gold pieces on the floor. “ Gerard de Monpazier’s 
gold,” Germaine told herself, with a shudder. By the 
dim light of the lamp, it was impossible for her to see 
that the figure lying there on the bed in the recess was 
no longer a living one. She only saw that her father 
had robbed his guest ; she was still mercifully uncon- 
scious of the fact that he had murdered him. 


122 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THREE WO ME H. 

Germaine Leroux, as she stole up the stair again to 
her chamber, asked herself if she were really awake ; if 
she were not the victim of some horrible hallucination. 
Sitting on her bed, her hands pressed tightly against 
her heart, frozen with horror, again and again the 
frightful vision returned to her. Her father kneeling by 
the side of the bed where their guest lay, plunging his 
hands into the louis scattered in a heap upon the floor. 

Her father, he whom she had loved and venerated — 
he to have committed a crime ! It was impossible. 

She determined suddenly to go down to the shop again 
and speak with her father. She got up and tottered 
toward the door, but fell to the floor unconscious. 
How long she lay there she never knew. The sun was 
streaming in at the window when she came to herself 
again. 

She sat up and looked around her wonderingly. 
What had happened? she asked herself. Suddenly the 
horrid sight of the night before returned to lier memory. 
She would go down stairs and see her father. It could 
not be true. No, no ; she had had a dreadful dream, a 
frightful nightmare. 

She plunged her face into a basin of cold water, made 
some slight changes in her dress, and quitted her room. 
In the hall she ran against her father. 


Three Women. 


123 


For one moment she found it impossible to lift her eyes 
to his face ; the next, however, she had lifted the lids, 
gazed searchingly, questioningly, at him. 

Leroux smiled. He was paler than usual, but quite 
calm. 

He extended his hand to his daughter and stooped 
forward to imprint a kiss on her forehead. She drew 
back involuntarily. 

“ What is the matter with you? ” he inquired. 

“Nothing,” she faltered, still gazing at him, but now 
a ray of hope lit up her great dark eyes. No one who 
had committed a crime could stand there so calm, so 
smiling, she told herself. 

“ Where is Monsieur de Monpazier ? ” she asked 
quickly. 

Not a muscle in Leroux’s face quivered. 

“ Monsieur de Monpazier is gone,” he answered 
quietly. 

“ Did he go last night ? ” she asked. 

“ This morning.” 

« Ah,” she sighed. She dared make no further in- 
quiries. It was she now who trembled before her father. 

“ Monsieur de Monpazier desired to be off,” he con- 
tinued in a dry, cold tone. “ He pretended not to feel 
safe here. He imagined that he had been followed by 
some one the night before, that his place of refuge was 
known to his enemies.” 

“ And you allowed him to go ? ” 

“ How could I help it ? He was quite anxious to be 
gone.” 

She was glad to return upstairs and prepare break- 
fast, but when seated at the table opposite her father, 
she found herself unable to swallow a morsel. Leroux, 


124 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

too, ate little. With a sudden gesture he pushed back 
his plate, exclaiming half under his breath, as though 
quite unconscious of his daughter’s presence, 

“ At last — I am saved.” 

Saved ! What did he mean, Germaine asked herself ; 
and at the word, all her doubts, her fears, returned. 
She inquired suddenly, 

“ Father, what has become of our guest of last night ? ” 

“ What do you suppose has become of him ? ” Leroux 
asked, angrily. “How should Iknaw what has become 
of him ? He went where it would suit him better than 
here, most likely. To Thorel’s, probably. Yes, by this 
time he will be at Thorel’s, I should imagine. As he was 
going off, he mentioned Thorel’s name, I remember.” 

While speaking, the draper had grown as white as 
the napkin he held in his hand, but his daughter never 
noticed it. A great wave of hope made her heart swell 
at the mention of Thorel’s name. “After all,” she told 
herself, “ it is quite probable that Monsieur de Mon- 
pazier has gone to his friend’s. I will go there and 
inquire for him.” She left the dining-room as soon as 
breakfast was over and changed her dress. 

“Where are you going?” asked her father, as she 
came into the shop where he sat at his desk, equipped 
for walking. 

“ To the Rue Vieux Augustins to pay the Thorels 
a visit.” He made no answer, letting her go in silence. 

The air outside, fresh and bright, revived her droop- 
ing spirits and drove her gloomy fancies away. 

She walked with a quick, light step. The sight of the 
passers-by, the noise, the bustle on all sides cheered her. 

She was now quite ready to believe that the whole 
occurrence of the preceding night was only a dream. 


Three Women. 


125 

A horrid dream, and so real too, but yet, after all, only 
a dream. 

Just as she turned into one of the narrow alleys run- 
ning into the Louvre, she observed a group of persons 
clustered around something lying on the pavement. 
As she came nearer, she could see that it was the body 
of a man. The face she did not see. The figure was 
that of a young, slender man, dressed in dark clothes. 

She hurried by with averted eyes. Some words from 
those around the body fell upon her ears. “ An émigré 
in disguise probably.” “No, no,” was the answer, 
“ a victim of an aristocrat, rather.” 

She hurried on with feverish haste. She could 
hardly keep herself from breaking into a run. Why 
should she try to see whose the corpse might be of 
which she had caught a glimpse just now. It certainly 
was no concern of hers. At Thorel’s she would find 
out if Monpazier was alive or not, but of course he was 
alive — she would certainly find him there. 

On arriving at Clotilde’s she found the latter in the 
act of tying mechanically a silk ribbon round the waist 
of her gown ; she was evidently about to go out. 

Pale as death, her eyes showing large and dark in 
the haggard face — haggard from a night of anxiety and 
sleeplessness, she burst into a cry of delight at the 
sight of Germaine. 

“Oh,” she exclaimed joyfully, “you have come to 
bring me news of André ! He was at your house last 
night.” 

“ I have seen nothing of Citizen Thorel,” returned 
Germaine, wonderingly. “ Has anything happened ? 
Why should he have left his own house to pass the 
night with us ? ” 


I2Ô 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ Is it possible you do not know ? He is a proscribed 
fugitive. He and his whole party have been accused 
and denounced by the Mountain. They have been de- 
creed under arrest at their own homes. To escape this 
decree André has fled, and since early yesterday morn- 
ing I have not seen him or had one word from him. 
I thought ” 

“ You thought I had brought you news of him, but I 
have come instead, seeking news from you of another 
person, a fugitive, like your husband. Did not some one 
come to you late last night ? ” 

“A fugitive?” returned Clotilde slowly, looking 
straight into the dark eyes of the girl before her. 

“ Yes, an émigré — a proscribed man — a suspect — a 
young man — a nobleman — a Royalist.” She trembled 
with anxiety as she spoke, dreading to receive a reply 
in the negative. 

“ Why do you ask such a question ? ” inquired the 
other suspiciously. 

“ Because if you can tell me that you gave such a 
man shelter last night, you will cause me to experience 
the greatest joy I have ever felt in my whole life 
before.” 

The tones of beseeching agony in which these words 
were spoken did not fail to affect the listener. 

“Very well,” she returned, “a fugitive did come 
here to me for shelter.” 

“ Here,” exclaimed Germaine, with a great cry of joy. 
The poor girl could hardly trust her own ears. The 
frightful vision of the night before, her father at the 
bedside of their guest, plunging his hands into the 
stolen gold, was only a dreadful nightmare after all. 
She had been out of her senses to believe her dear, her 


Three Women. 


127 

honoured father guilty of a crime. She longed to throw 
her arms around Clotilde’s neck, and shed there tears of 
delight. 

“ It was a gentleman who came here last night ? ” 
she inquired again, however. She must he quite satis- 
fied of the truth. A Royalist — a ci-devant ? ” 

Why do you question me so closely ? ” returned 
Clotilde, impatiently, “ I have already told you he was 
here.” 

“ It is not that I wish to do him any harm.” 

“ Of that I am quite sure, dear child, and I will tell 
you the truth. Yes, the man was a young man — an 
ex-noble — a Royalist.” 

And now the dark eyes of the girl, but a moment be- 
fore so haggard and anxious, filled with happy tears. 
Monpazier was safe. Her father had spoken the truth. 
How she longed to fly to him and beg his forgiveness 
for her undutiful, unfilial thoughts. 

“ The gentleman is quite safe ? ” she asked smilingly. 

“ I trust so.” 

“ He is no longer here? ” 

“ No, there was danger in his remaining here.” 

“ Yes, that was the reason too, he left my father’s 
shop. He was afraid he might have been followed.” 

“ At your father’s shop ? He did not speak of being 
there.” 

“ Probably he had no time to tell you so, but he 
passed the greater part of the night in the shop, sleep- 
ing on the shopman’s bed.” 

“The night,” returned Clotilde, with a puzzled 
air. 

“ Monsieur de Monpazier did not tell you then that 
he came in the evening — ? ” 


128 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

Clotilde interrupted her, astonished. 

“Is Monsieur de Monpazier the fugitive of whom 
you have been speaking ? ” 

“ Yes. Monsieur de Monpazier came to 3'ou last 
night, or, rather, this morning, did not he ? ” 

“ Monsieur de Monpazier — this morning — ” repeated 
Clotilde, blankly. 

“ Yes, this morning — quite early this morning ! ” re- 
peated Germaine wildly. 

“ Nobody came here this morning, it was last evening, 
and it was not Monsieur de Monpazier, it was Monsieur 
de Puyjoli seeking Monsieur de Monpazier, his elder 
brother.” 

“ Ah,” exclaimed Germaine, with an exceeding bitter 
cry. “ Monsieur de Puyjoli, then, is the brother of 
M. de Monpazier?” 

She stood there as pale as death, as though turned 
to stone at the words she had heard. 

“ You thought,” asked Clotilde, moved to pity at the 
sight of the girl’s stony despair, “it must have been M. 
de Monpazier who was here last evening?” 

“ Yes,” the other answered mechanically. 

“ M. de Puyjoli came here to look for his brother. 
He was very much surprised and alarmed at not finding 
him here ; but if he was with you of course he would 
be quite safe. And he left early this morning to come 
here did you say ? He must have heard on the way hither 
of André’s being proscribed and denounced in the Con- 
vention. Ah, what terrible times are these we live in, 
Germaine! On all sides of us danger and bloodshed — 
and I, I do not know where my husband is, or even if he 
be alive. And as for M. de Puyjoli — ” 

The name Puyjoli rang like a knell in Germaine’s 


Three Women. 129 

ears, shattering all her hopes. It was not her father’s 
guest whom Clotilde had sheltered, but his brother. 
And, suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, she saw again 
that savage spectacle in the shop recess the evening be- 
fore— saw her father bending over the bedside — saw the 
scattered gold pieces — saw the figure extended rigid, 
motionless, upon its narrow couch. 

On awaking from her swoon after that terrible vision 
of the night, Germaine told herself that fate had done 
its worst. She had, she thought, reached the limit of 
her endurance, but now another and greater burden of 
sorrow was added to her already overburdened heart. 
The man whom her father had murdered was the brother 
of the man she loved — loved secretly indeed, but with 
what a depth of tenderness, of devotion ! 

Clotilde, in the meanwhile, was filled with anxiety 
concerning her husband’s fate. Puyjoli had been able 
to give her information that her husband had been to 
the house the evening before, — but, owing to the sen- 
tinels stationed in her apartment, he had been unable to 
get to her. The worthy cobbler had also been able to 
tell her that at present the Girondins were in no abso- 
lute danger ; they were simply under arrest at their own 
homes, pending the judgment of the Tribunal. 

Perceiving the alarm this word “judgment ” had ex- 
cited in Clotilde, he added kindly: — 

“Do not be uneasy, Citizeness. The deputies will 
surely be acquitted. There has only arisen a slight 
misunderstanding between the two opposing parties in 
the Convention. It will soon pass over.” 

Clotilde had been thankful to know that André had 
escaped arrest. She would have rejoiced to learn that 
he had escaped from Paris where dangers awaited him 
9 


130 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

on every side. But surely lie might have sent her some 
word to reassure her. 

“ Your father,” she exclaimed abruptly, as though a 
sudden thought had struck her, “ your father has not 
seen Thorel ? ” 

“ No,” returned Germaine sighing, “ would to God he 
had come to us for shelter.” 

“ Where can he be ? ” repeated Clo tilde. “ At whose 
door can he have sought refuge? Where can he be 
concealed ? Alas, perhaps he is no longer living.” 

At these words, she took up her hat from the couch 
where it was lying, and began tying its gay tri-coloured 
ribbons under her chin nervously. 

“ You are going,” inquired Germaine, mechanically, 
“ you are going ” 

“ I do not know where. I must seek for tidings of 
my, husband among his friends, if one so unfortunate 
has any friends. But I must have news of him. I shall 
go to the Convention if I can hear nothing elsewhere 
of him. I shall go there to supplicate for him, to defend 
him.” 

“ If we should go to M. de Louverchal’s together,” 
suggested Germaine. 

“M. de Louverchal’s ? ” returned Clotilde, not under- 
standing her. 

i ° 

“ M. de Louverchal is from the same province as M. de 
Puyjoli. I have heard so from M. de Puyjoli himself.” 

“I am acquainted with the former Marquis de Louver- 
chal. I have often visited at his house in Perigueux 
with Madame de Trémolat, my patroness.” 

“ M. de Puyjoli is a frequent visitor at the house of 
M. de Louverchal, and it is probable he went straight 
from here, there.” 


Three Women. 


131 

“ But Thorel does not know M. de Puyjoli,” exclaimed 
Clotilde impatiently. 

“ Who knows ? Citizen Thorel was the friend from 
childhood of M. de Monpazier. We may, at Hôtel de 
Louverchal, get news of them both.” 

Clotilde understood but one thing of what Germaine 
had been saying, — that at the Louverchals, she might 
hear something of her husband. As for Germaine, she 
was wildly anxious to learn if Gaston were in safety. 
Since she had reason to believe his brother had been the 
victim of a cruel and pitiless fate, she was doubly anxious 
to be assured of the other’s safety. 

Still, Clotilde demurred to following Germaine’s 
proposition to go to the hôtel in the Rue Mira- 
beau. 

“ It hardly seems possible that Gaston would go to M. 
de Louverchal’s for shelter, as by doing so he would be 
likely to imperil the lives of M. de Louverchal and his 
daughter, who besides are, themselves, at any moment, 
liable to be arrested as ‘suspects’ by the Commune. 
As for André, he would not surely have gone with Puy- 
joli to the Marquis’s, for he is quite unknown to both of 
them.” 

“ Who knows what has happened during- the night ? 
Who knows what strange freak of fate may have brought 
your husband and M. de Puyjoli together? ” returned 
Germaine, clinging obstinately to the idea that from M. 
de Louverchal they would be able to get some news of 
the Viscount. 

“Very well, we can go there if you wish it,” returned 
Clotilde, submissively. 

The two women left the house in company. The sun 
was shining brightly on this June morning. They 


132 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

walked rapidly and silently through the streets leading 
to the hôtel in the Rue Mirabeau. 

When they arrived there, they found the hôtel to 
all appearance, quite unoccupied. The shutters were 
closed and bolted, there were no signs of life about the 
court-yard. In reply to their repeated knocking, how- 
ever, the great door was opened cautiously, and Bonne- 
main’s white, terror-stricken face looked out. 

To Clotilde’s question if Citizen Louverchal were at 
home, he answered nervously, 

“No, Mad — no, Citizen ess — he went out this morn- 
ing.” 

“ He is out ? say then, to Mademoiselle de Louver- 
chal that I should like to see her. You do not remem- 
ber me ? ” 

Bonnemain excused himself anxiously, with many 
glances askance at the tri-coloured hat ribbons. The 
citizeness must pardon him. His nerves had been so 
upset, his head so bewildered by the tumult in the 
streets the day before. Mademoiselle de Louverchal 
was at home. He would go and announce the citizen- 
ess. “ I remember, you know, but what name am I to 
announce to Mademoiselle de Louverchal? Your name 
was just at my tongue’s end, but it has left me again. 
Oh, what a head is mine ! ” 

“ The wife of Citizen Thorel, member of the National 
Convention would speak with your mistress.” 

“ The wife of Citizen Thorel, member of the Conven- 
tion,” echoed Bonnemain faintly, going off rapidly to 
announce her. He returned presently with word that 
Mademoiselle de Louverchal would see the wife of 
Citizen Thorel, and ushered Clotilde and her companion 
into the small drawing-room where the pastel portrait 


Three Women. 


133 

of the young mistress of the house formed the principal 
ornament. The light sifted dimly into the room from 
the closed and drawn blinds ; the furniture, concealed 
under brown holland coverings, gave the room a deso- 
late and disused appearance. 

Bertha had been rather alarmed at hearing that the 
wife of a Conventional desired to see her, but on enter- 
ing the drawing-room the sight of the pale, grief-stricken 
faces of the two women convinced her it was on no sin- 
ister errand they had come. 

“ To what do I owe the honour of your visit ? ” she 
inquired in a manner slightly haughty and in a clear, 
metallic, almost hard, tone, “ Mad — ” she stopped sud- 
denly, at a loss evidently what title to use in addressing 
the wife of one of the leaders of the Republican party. 

“ I am the wife of Citizen Thorel,” returned Clotilde, 
understanding her hesitation. “ My friend and I have 
come to inquire if you have any news of two suspected 
persons — my husband, and M. de Puyjoli.” 

An expression at once bored and annoyed appeared 
on the pretty, piquant face of Mademoiselle de Louver- 
chal. She answered in a tone which she took no pains 
to keep from being scornful, 

“I know that M. de Puyjoli is in Paris. Where, 
however, I am unable to say.” 

“ You have not seen him then lately ?” inquired Ger- 
maine, in her sweet, anxious voice. 

“ He was here the day before yesterday, but did not 
intimate to us that he was in danger. I should imagine 
that M. de Puyjoli is perfectly well able to take care of 
himself. As for M. Thorel,” she made a little scornful 
gesture which said plainly, “ with M. Thorel and his 
affairs I have nothing to do.” 


134 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ It is because M. de Monpazier, the elder brother of 
M. de Puyjoli, was the friend of my husband that I came 
here in hopes ” 

“ I have not the honour of M. de Monpazier’s acquaint- 
ance,” returned Bertha, coldly. She experienced a new 
and strange sensation of jealousy at being confronted 
with this beautiful, gentle girl, so interested, evidently, 
in the fate of Puyjoli. She eyed lier furtively, and was 
compelled to confess to herself that her rival was beau- 
tiful, of a far higher, nobler type of beauty than her own. 

Besides the actress Clerval, there were other women 
whose heads had been turned by the Viscount’s beauty, 
it seemed, — beauty she had herself despised and re- 
proached him with. 

At this moment, however, the door opened and her 
father entered, much to her relief, for she had grown 
-weary of her visitors. The Marquis was deadly pale, 
lie struggled, however, for composure, smiling and rub- 
bing his hands, which shook visibly under their lace 
ruffles. He bowed to the ladies, looking searchingly at 
them. 

“Well,” inquired Bertha, calmly. 

Her father stared at her with a stupefied air, and 
glanced warningly in the direction of Clotilde and her 
companion, who, understanding the Marquis wished to 
be alone with his daughter, made a movement to leave 
the room. 

“ No, no,” exclaimed Bertha, detaining them by a 
gesture. 

“ Say what you have to say, my father, here in Citizen- 
ess Thorel’s presence. Anything you may have to tell 
will only prove to her how delightful her friends, the 
Jacobins, make our lives for us. Citizen Thorel ” 


Three Women. 135 

M. de Louverchal shuddered involuntarily at the 
name; the spectre of proscription, of death itself, seemed 
personified in the graceful form and lovely face of the 
young woman before him. 

“Well,” he forced himself to say, “as far as I can 
hear, we have as yet escaped denunciation before the 
Commune.” 

“ I have always told you that dunce, Bonnemain, is a 
coward.” 

“ It was a false alarm of his this time, my daughter.” 

Bertha smiled scornfully, and Clotilde was not slow 
to perceive that this was a piece of bravado on the 
young girl’s part, to show her how this daughter of a 
noble race laughed at danger, death itself, at the hands 
of the canaille. 

Clotilde, in her turn, looked calmly at her antagonist ; 
speaking in a clear voice, she said : 

“I do not forget that I passed in Perigueux formerly 
many happy hours in your company. If my husband, 
André Thorel, should again be fortunate enough to re- 
cover his former position in the councils of his country, 
it is to his house I invite you to come to seek for safety, 
should you ever need it.” 

“ I thank you, Madame,” returned the Marquis, in 
tones of frigid courtesy, still, however, trembling with 
fear. 

“ Ah,” exclaimed Bertha suddenly, turning towards 
Germaine and speaking quickly, “I remember now, 
M. de Puyjoli is probably at present at the house 
of a worthy man who some time ago invited him to 
come to him if he should find it necessary to go into 
hiding. 

“ And the name of this man ? ” 


136 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ I do not quite remember — Peche, Puche — one of 
the prompters at the Comédie Française.” 

“Nicholas Pluche ! ” interrupted Clotilde, “it will 
be to Pluche’s house that he has gone for safety.” 

Her face lighted up with joy and hope. Why had 
not she thought of Pluche before ? Ah, what a fortu- 
nate idea it had been for Germaine to come to the de 
Louverchals’. But she was now in a hurry to be off. 

“ Come, let us go,” she whispered to her companion, 
pulling at her sleeve gently. However, just as they 
were about taking their leave, Bertha addressed Ger- 
maine abruptly. 

“Pardon me, but do not you live in the Rue du 
Mail? Are not you the daughter of Leroux, the 
draper? M. de Puyjoli has spoken of you to me.” 

“ M. de Puyjoli spoke to you of mo ? ” repeated Ger- 
maine falteringly. 

“Yes, often,” returned the other, looking searchingly 
at the girl before her. Her gaze told her that the other 
was beautiful — more beautiful than she at first sup- 
posed, with the grave, gracious beauty of a saint or a 
martyr. Clotilde now, however, hurried her companion 
away. 

“You are going to Nicholas Pluche’s?” inquired 
Germaine, when the two were again in the street. 

“ Certainly, at once.” 

“ Have not you thought that you who are known to 
be the wife of a proscribed and fugitive deputy may be 
watched and followed by one of the spies of the 
Commune ? ” 

“ You are quite right,” returned Clotilde, stopping 
suddenly. “ What shall I do ? ” she asked wildly ; “ I 
cannot longer endure this suspense.” 


Three Women. 


137 

“ Let me go there in your place. M. de Puyjoli is 
there too, probably. No one will think of watching me.” 

“Thank you, thank you,” returned the other rap- 
turously. “ Go you in alone to Pluches. But oh, Ger- 
maine, if you knew how I longed for the sight of my 
husband’s face, the sound of his voice once more ! ” 

“ And yet you have hardly been separated two days 
from each other,” returned Germaine, with a faint 
smile. 

“It is the hour of rehearsal at the Théâtre de la 
Nation,” replied Clotilde ; “ if we should go there first 
together, we could see Pluche, and perhaps get news of 
André.” 

They went together to the theatre and waited at the 
door until Pluche came out. With a quick movement 
Clotilde placed herself in front of him. They walked 
off together, Pluche between the two young women. 

When they were at a safe distance from the theatre, 
Clotilde whispered, “ Thorel ? ” — Germaine, “ M. de 
Puyjoli?” Two rapid movements of the little man’s 
head sufficed to answer these questions. He bent his 
head slightly in answer to Clotilde’s inquiry, shook it 
in reply to Germaine’s. 

“ I wish to see my husband,” she whispered fever- 
ishly. 

Only another shake — a vehement one this time — re- 
plied to her. They were now at the corner of the 
street, when Pluche said, under his breath, at the sight 
of a man approaching from the other side, 

“ Citizen Piroutel — hush ! do not speak ! — I will 
write you.” 

Then, executing an elaborate bow, he wheeled round 
on his heels and went forward to greet the citizen. 


138 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

Clotilde, comforted and reassured by the news that 
her husband was at Pluche’s, now declared her inten- 
tion of returning home. 

“And you, Germaine, where are you going?” she 
inquired kindly before leaving her. 

“ I ? — oh, I shall go home again,” sighed Germaine 
wearily. 

Her tone arrested even Clotilde’s notice, filled as her 
heart was with thoughts of her husband, so full of 
hopelessness was it. What was it that caused Ger- 
maine such grief? No danger menaced her father,* no 
one she loved was a hunted, miserable fugitive. She 
had half a mind to question the girl, to inquire the 
cause of her sorrow ; but even as she thought, Germaine 
had taken leave of her, and with a slow, dragging step — 
the step of a criminal going to the scaffold — had turned, 
and was walking off in the opposite direction. 


Through Paris. 


139 


CHAPTER X. 

THROUGH PARIS. 

Clotilde’s heart beat high with hope at hearing 
her husband was with the Pluches in the Rue Haute- 
ville. 

Dear, kind, brave man, thought she, gratefully, and 
to think it should be he — a chance acquaintance — hardly 
more — who should be the saviour of André’s life. 

She passed the remainder of the day alone at home, a 
prey to anxious fears. In the evening, however, there 
came a note from Pluche. 

44 Do not endeavour to see him. He does not wish it. 
For his happiness and yours you had better make no 
effort to see him. Patience — silence.” 

She read and re-read the note again and again a hun- 
dred times. The oftener she read it the stranger the 
tone of it appeared. 44 He does not wish it.” Does not 
wish me to come to him — but why? But no, the com- 
mand not to see him — for it was a command — was a 
wise one, necessitated by present circumstances, and 
she would obey it implicitly. But why could not 
André have written her a word — one little, little word — 
to show her he loved her, that he longed for her as she 
for him ? 

She made up her mind, on reading the note, to go to 
the theatre again the next morning and ask for Citizen 


140 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

Pluche. No one had forbidden her to see Citizen 
Pluclie. 

On the next day, at the hour of rehearsal, she was 
told that Citizen Pluche was engaged — could not see 
her just then. The porter, however, invited her to 
come into his box and wait there for him. She seated 
herself on a rickety chair there to wait. As she sat, 
the pretty, laughing face of an actress appeared at the 
door, and a gay, melodious voice inquired, 

“No letters for me to-day ! ” 

“No, Citizeness.” 

“No letters — ah, my admirers are growing careless, 
I fear. Not even one madrigal awaiting me from some 
despairing lover ! ” And the face disappeared, to the 
accompaniment of fresh, youthful laughter. 

“It is Citizeness Clerval,” said the porter to Clotilde. 
“ She is very pretty,” she answered absently. 

“ Pretty ! I should think so ! — and so kind. No one 
could be kinder.” 

Pluche now appeared, a shade of embarrassment, of 
reserve in his greeting, that did not escape Clotilde ’s 
notice and excited her wonder. 

“ Pardon me, Citizeness, for keeping you waiting, but 
the rehearsal was longer than usual to-day.” 

Clotilde drew him aside, and laying her white hand, 
covered with a black lace mitten, on his sleeve, she in- 
quired earnestly, speaking in a whisper, 

“ My husband ? ” 

“ Safe.” 

“ With you ? ” 

Pluche nodded. 

“ I wish to see him,” she continued, feverishly, 

“ Impossible.” 


Through Paris. 


141 

“ Why?” 

“ It would be highly dangerous — for you as lor him, 
and then ” 

“ And then?” 

“ You got my note ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, then you must know that it is he who forbids 
your coming to him.” 

“André?” 

“ Of course. It is his idea altogether, and he is prob- 
ably right in doing so. You must be prudent, patient.” 
He caught hold of Clotilde’s hand as he spoke, and 
taking it in both his own shrivelled ones, continued 
kindly: “I will try and send you word if anything 
should happen. I will write again, if necessary. For 
the present be content to know that your husband is in 
safety.” A bell rang loudly, “That is for me — I 
must go. Adieu.” He waved his hand and disap- 
peared through the door quickly. 

Clotilde stood there looking after his retreating form 
blankly. His behaviour, his words, were quite, incom- 
prehensible to her. She only understood one thing, 
poor faithful soul, that her husband did not wish to see 
her. Well, as he had ordered her not to come to him, 
she would obey him, but that would not prevent her 
from making every effort to save him. 

She determined to appeal to Danton, yes, to invoke 
even the aid of Robespierre. In the meantime, haunt- 
ing as she did daily the corridors of the Hall of the 
Convention, she encountered Saint Just there. 

The young and handsome Jacobin was fashionably 
dressed. He carried himself elegantly, his long, golden 
hair fell in ringlets on the collar of a coat sky-blue in 


142 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

colour. Around his slender throat, a cravat of spotless 
muslin was carefully tied. He walked with his head 
aloft and eyes looking straight before him. 

“ Citizen,” exclaimed Clotilde, stepping in front of 
him, “ I have a service to ask of you.” 

“Of me?” returned Saint Just, not a muscle mov- 
ing in his cold, impassive face, beautiful as that of a 
Greek statue. 

“ Of you. My husband has been decreed under ar- 
rest by the Convention ; my husband, who is every inch 
a patriot, and yet he is proscribed, denounced. He, a 
true, faithful servant of France, of the people.” 

“ Is he one of my colleagues?” inquired Saint Just. 

“ It is André Thorel.” 

Saint Just frowned slightly and threw back his head 
haughtily, without, however, disarranging a fold in his 
starched and spotless cravat. 

“André Thorel is a member of the Gironde party, 
decreed under arrest since the second of June, but he 
is still a member of the Convention, though detained as a 
prisoner in his own house.” 

“Very well, my husband wishes this order of arrest 
rescinded.” 

“ One of his colleagues, Bertrand Labosdinières, 
former member of the Committee of Twelve, has just 
written a letter to the Convention, humbly praying to 
be set at liberty by that body.” He continued, perceiv- 
ing that Clotilde had started nervously at his last words. 
“ Let Thorel write such a letter, and I will take it 
upon myself to deliver it over to the Convention, and 
will, as I have done for Bertrand Labosdinières, re- 
commend him to the clemency of that body, holding 
him, as I do, rather mistaken than culpable ” 


i43 


Through Paris. 

“ Culpable,” returned Clotilde, impetuously, “ My 
husband, a patriot to his heart’s core ; culpable, guilty 
of any sin towards the Republic ? It is impossible ! 
He to write a letter asking pardon ! He is incapable 
of such cowardice ! ” 

“Possibly,” returned Saint Just, icily; “still, I see 
no cowardice in submitting one’s self to the law.” 

He made a step forward as he spoke, as a sign that he 
desired to put an end to the interview, and, waving his 
hand in adieu, he marched on, looking neither to the 
right nor left. 

Still Clotilde did not despair of saving her husband ; 
but how ? Day by day the situation of the Girondins 
grew more perilous. Drouet, member for Yarennes, 
had already demanded of the Convention that the 
members under arrest at their own homes should be 
taken from there and shut up in the prison of the 
Abbey. The proscribed deputies also bad begun to flee 
from Paris. It was Panazol, the shoemaker, who 
brought news of their flight to Clotilde. One day it 
was Barbaroux and Grangeneuve, the next, Louvet or 
Larivière. 

On the 23rd of June, in the morning, Pétion escaped 
from Paris ; Lajuinais followed in the afternoon of the 
same day. 

Mollevant fled on the night of the 24th; with him 
went Pache, former mayor of Paris. 

André, however, safely hidden away at Nicholas 
Pluche’s, remained, as his wife knew, in Paris. And 
yet she could not see him, and the poor, constant soul 
pined for the sight of his beloved face, if but for a 
moment. 

One day she made up her mind to go to Danton. 


144 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“Danton has a heart — is humane,” she remembered 
having heard her husband say. 

She turned her steps in the direction of the Cour de 
Commerce, where Danton lodged, in the same house 
with Camille Desmoulins and his beautiful young 
wife. Her heart beat fearfully as, after traversing the 
court, she found herself mounting the dark staircase 
leading to Danton’s apartment. Her terror, however, 
died away when she found herself in the presence of 
this “Colossus of the Commune.” 

Danton was seated at his table in a room fur- 
nished in accordance with his combined occupations — 
that of a statesman and a man of letters. On the walls 
hung pictures of value ; bookcases filled with books 
were on every side. 

Dressed in a dressing-gown of flowered damask, an 
embroidered waistcoat, a shirt, the unbuttoned collar of 
which displayed his brawny throat and a portion of 
hairy chest, Danton raised his shaggy head and saluted 
his visitor politely, on the servant’s announcing Tier. 

She would have probably recoiled at the sight of this 
rugged, stern countenance, with its beetling, overhang- 
ing eyebrows, its thick nose, its contorted mouth, had 
not the smile with which he greeted her softened and 
tempered its severity marvellously. 

He extended his great shaggy hand toward her, 
exclaiming at the same time in rough yet cordial tones : 

“ Salut, Citizeness, thou art the wife of André Thorel, 
then?” he began, using the familiar pronoun “thou” 
to her, as he did to every one. 

“Yes, Citizen.” 

“ And thou hast come here to ask me to plead his 
cause before the Commune ? ” 


Through Paris. 145 

“ Yes, Citizen, and if you plead my husband’s cause, 
it will be won.” 

“Thou thinkest so,” he returned, shrugging his 
huge shoulders doubtfully, “ but thou art not the only 
one who has come with like petitions to me. The wives, 
the relatives, the friends of other Girondins besiege 
my doors daily. Still, thy husband is one for whom I 
have always had a great esteem and admiration. A 
sound head, a strong heart, a great soul, and the public 
has need of such sons as he. But why does he hesitate 
to become one of us ? Why cannot he see that with the 
Cordeliers, as with the Girondins, there is but one aim, 
one desire — to serve and save France. The Girondins, 
however, are blind leaders of the people. There are 
talent, genius, learning among them, but neither strength 
nor steadfastness. One cannot make an omelette with- 
out breaking eggs, and yet the Girondins talk about 
the crime of blood-shedding. The blood of traitors is the 
rain which shall water the roots of the tree of Liberty. 

“ Listen, Citizeness ; the fugitive Girondins — news 
has come to me this morning — have levied an army at 
Caen, and at Evreux, an army which will take to flight 
like a bevy of partridges at the first encounter with the 
patriots. Thy husband, I trust, is not with these 
madmen — these traitors.” 

“ My husband is in Paris. He would be the last one 
to plunge France by his counsels or acts into a civil 
war.” And as Danton continued to speak of France, 
whose freedom he desired, and for which he combated, 
she interrupted him boldly with the words : 

“Is it necessary in order to secure freedom to France, 
that her sons who have served her well and faithfully 
should now be fugitives and prisoners ? ” 

10 


146 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ No, no, certainly not, Citizeness, and I tell thee the 
time has come now for France to pardon and forget. 
May that happy day soon rise upon my longing eyes, 
that I may return to my native province, and pass the 
remainder of my life among my friends and books 
there.” He extended his hand in farewell to Clotilde, 
adding : 

“ If I can give back thy husband to thy faithful, 
courageous breast, rest assured I shall do so.” 

Clotilde thanked him, but she besought him before 
leaving, for some promise more definite. 

“ Ah,” he returned, smilingly, “ I have promised to 
try, but it is out of my power to promise that I shall 
succeed.” 

“ But you are Danton, nevertheless.” 

“ Danton is, however, of small consequence in times 
like these,” he interrupted her, “a voice, nothing more. 
And the voices of the Girondins are many and far more 
eloquent than mine. But what a man can do for thy 
husband, I will do. Rely on me.” And with this 
promise she had to be content. 

And how empty and solitary now appeared the dwell- 
ing where she and André had passed so many happy 
days in company. No one came to see her, except 
occasionally Panazol, carrying a shoe ostentatiously in 
his hand as a cover to his visit to her, to bring her 
some news gleaned from the newspapers or on the 
streets, of the party to which her husband belonged. 

The days passed, and still Nicholas Pluche’s interdict 
not to come to his house to see her husband, remained 
unrescinded. 

She could endure this state of anxiety and suspense 
no longer. One day she closed her dwelling, giving 


Through Paris. 147 

the key to the concierge, and disappeared, without leav- 
ing any trace of her whereabouts behind her. 

In the lodging-house directly opposite Pluche’s there 
was a room to rent. One day a young woman dressed 
as a seamstress applied to the porter for it. 

“ Your trade, Citizeness ? ” 

“ A lace-mender.” 

“ Your name?” 

“Thérèse Barbier.” 

“ Married or single ? ” 

“ Single.” 

“ Have you parents ? ” 

“I am an orphan.” 

“ A native of Paris ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“You know,” returned the porter, glancing suspi- 
ciously at her, “ that this is a quiet house, Citizeness.” 

“ I am a respectable woman, Citizen.” 

“Very well, in the chamber below lives Publicola 
Yerdier, an ardent patriot.” 

“ I, too, am a patriot.” 

“ But you have no objection to actors ?” 

“To actors ? ” 

“ Because across from the room you wish to hire, is 
one occupied by Citizen La Bussière, a gay boy, Citizen 
La Bussière.” 

“ I do not know him,” returned the woman absently. 

The porter began to laugh. 

“ Not know him ! Oh, well, it will not take you long 
to make his acquaintance. You must go and see him 
play Janot. You would enjoy it, I am sure.” 

“ I have no time for amusement, Citizen.” 

“ Ah, ah,” returned the porter, who prided himself 


148 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

on his gallantry. “ But when one is young and pretty 
one needs some amusement.” 

The seamstress turned pale visibly. 

“Well, well,” returned the man reassuringly, “the 
lodging is yours, Citizeness. You said your name was 

Thérèse Bar ” inquired the porter, opening his 

ledger. 

“ Thérèse Barbier.” And, while the porter was 
writing in his fashion with a screaming goose-quill on 
the page of the ledger, “ Tes-rize Barrebié, seamstress,” 
she inquired eagerly : 

“ What is the name of the old man living opposite ? ” 

“ He is not old,” returned the porter, not looking up 
from his writing : “ Citizen La Bussière.” 

“ I am not speaking of him. I asked the little house 
opposite.” 

“ Ah, yes, a fat little old man. That must be Citi- 
zen Pluche — Nicholas Pluche, second prompter at the 
Théâtre de la Nation, a friend of Publicola Verdier, 
and Citizen La Bussière. 


Rue Hauteville. 


149 


CHAPTER XL 

EUE HAUTEVILLE. 

On the morning of Monday, July 1st, Citizeness Babet, 
dusting, as was her custom, the furniture and the little 
dresser of the dining-room, on which were arranged her 
painted china plates, cups and saucers, with glass jugs, 
glasses and tumblers, exclaimed to Nicholas, who was 
busy making corrections in some manuscripts at a little 
table near the window : 

“ Nicholas, you have no idea what Publicola told me 
yesterday»” 

“ No, Babet, I have not indeed,” putting down his 
quill, and looking at her curiously. 

“ It appears that the Section Poissonnière stopped a 
cart yesterday, loaded with soap-boxes, as it was sup- 
posed. These soap-boxes, shipped from Orleans to 
Rouen, however, were found to contain gunpowder.” 

“Well,” returned Nicholas, quietly. 

“ Well, you say, but if the Section has begun examin- 
ing soap-boxes, it will end with searching people’s 
houses. It began at the Poissonnière barrier, it will 
finish with the Rue Hauteville.” 

“Are you out of your senses, Babet? do not be 
alarmed; the patriots will not come here to search for 
powder among your cups and dishes, or arms among 
my collection of play-house armour and weapons.” 


i5o Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

Then, dropping his voice, he added, “ or perhaps you 
are uneasy about our guest ? ” 

“ Yes, yes,’’ returned Babet, “ poor Citizen Thorel, I 
fear he has found our house during the month he has 
been with us, as dreary as a prison.” 

“Hardly,” returned Nicholas, smiling, “he may be 
at a loss sometimes to kill time, but after all, that is 
better than being killed himself.” 

“ But if he should be discovered here ? ” 

“Well, he would be thrown into prison, tried and 
condemned, as so many of his associates have been be- 
fore him; and with him ” 

“ You, my dear husband,” exclaimed Babet, her fresh, 
honest face growing white as a corpse at the thought. 

“ Yes, and you too, my dear wife, but you seem to 
have forgotten your own danger.” 

“We ought to help others in their misfortune,” she 
answered simply. Nicholas was silent a moment, then 
exclaimed, 

“ But suppose I were to propose our running a double 
risk?” 

“ A double risk ? ” 

“ Yes, to conceal another fugitive with Thorel.” 

“ Another fugitive? ” 

“ Suppose I were to tell you that I have already 
stowed away another person, proscribed by the Conven- 
tion.” 

“ Sheltered another ! What, another Girondin ? ” 

“ No, no, not a Girondin this time.” For a little 
variety I have hidden away an aristocrat, a ci-devant , , 
the Viscount de Pu} 7 joli, a former habitué of the 
Théâtre de la Nation. ' Puyjoli. The handsome Puy- 
joli. He who formerly had the actress Sophie Clerval 


Rue Hauteville. 


i5i 

under his protection, and she in her turn has had him 
under her protection (in another fashion, however) for 
some weeks past, but his whereabouts was discovered a 
few days ago ; he was obliged to flee by night and in 
disguise from the actress’s apartments. Last night 1 
brought him home here with me, Babet. Is not that 
a pleasant surprise for you ? I am filling the house for 
you. We shall be in no danger for some time to come 
of being lonely.” 

“ Gracious Heavens ! ” exclaimed Babet, throwing 
her arms despairingly above her head and falling heavily 
into the nearest chair. 44 And where have you hidden 
him — your ci-devant ? ” 

44 Down below.” 

“ I11 the cellar ? ” 

“ And the Girondin in the attic,” returned Pluche, 
merrily. 

“ Well, they will be in no danger of meeting, thank 
Heaven.” 

44 They must meet, and at dinner to-day.” 

44 Have them dine together ! What on earth can you 
be thinking of, Pluche?” 

44 Yes, together,” he returned firmly. 44 The Citizen 
André Thorel,face to face with the former Viscount de 
Puyjoli. The old régime and the new.” 

44 But they will be throwing plates at each other’s 
heads. The slightest discussion will ” 

44 Possibly. But there will be no discussion when the 
two dine with us.” 

Babet jumped off her chair impatiently. 

44 Mercy ! ” she exclaimed, 44 you are out of your 
senses, my dear Nicholas. Do not you know that the least 
noise here indoors can be heard outside in the street,” 


1 52 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ Yes, yes, the least noise, but I trust there will be no 
noise. Do you understand my plans ? The Viscount 
is disguised, and quite unknown to Thorel. Take my 
word for it — we shall have a very pleasant dinner-party.” 

“ Ah, Pluche, how kind you are, and how brave. I 
do not think there is another man in all Paris to-day as 
brave as you.” 

“ You flatter your husband, Babet. Now go, and like 
a good soul, get dinner for us. Fugitives and suspects 
are, as I have already discovered, blessed with good 
appetites, as well they may be, poor devils, whose every 
meal may be their last.” 

Shortly after, when Babet had disappeared in the 
kitchen, Thorel descended from his attic and entered 
the dining-room. Nicholas, on his appearing, w~ent up 
to him, and turning him about, carefully examined the 
clothes he had on. 

It was a traveling costume of dark blue cloth, similar 
to those w^orn by merchants from the Provinces on their 
visits to the capital. His head and part of his forehead 
were covered by a huge powdered wig. 

“Well, Citizen Pluche, are you satisfied with my dis- 
guise, the disguise you insisted on my donning ? ” 

Nicholas turned him round and round slowly, ar- 
ranging here and there a fold or smoothing down a 
wrinkle, exclaiming ; 

“ Very well, very well done, indeed ! No one would 
recognise you.” 

At these words André made an impatient movement, 
which his host perceiving, added solemnly : 

“ Citizen Thorel, it is not only on your own account, 
as a means of your own safety, that you are called to 
wear a disguise and masquerade in a manner distasteful 


Rue Hauteville. 153 

to you, but we, your hosts, are compelled for our own 
safety to ask the sacrifice of you.” 

“ Forgive me, Pluche,” exclaimed André, penitently, 
“ forgive me that even for a moment I should have been 
forgetful of the risks you and your noble wife are con- 
tent to run for my sake.” 

“ The more I examine it,” continued the worthy 
prompter, “ the more perfect your disguise appears to 
me ; and, as the friend I brought back last night with 
me, the horse-dealer from Limousin I told you of, has 
very sharp eyes, I can congratulate you on your make- 
up. It is clever enough to deceive even him, I fancy. 
So, Citizen Tliorel, we have agreed, have not we, that I 
am to introduce you to my friend as a native of Provence, 
here in Paris on business. Let me see — of what trade 
shall I say you are ? Ah, I have it, an oil merchant.” 

“ An oil merchant,” returnel Thorel, wonderingly. 

“Yes, because you can mimic the accent of Provence 
so well. Your wig a little farther forward, please, and 
you must have a hat. Ah, here is one,” opening a 
wardrobe and taking out a three-cornered hat of drab 
felt. “ And above all — the southern accent in speaking.” 

“ I cannot promise to remember about the accent. 
Still, I will do my best. Though, after all, what does 
it matter? My life is not worth taking all this trouble 
to keep.” 

“ But our lives, Babet’s and mine, are not they worth 
it ? ” inquired Pluche, gravely. 

“ Forgive me,” returned the other, remorsefully, “ but 
after all, you had better let me go,” and Thorel gave a 
longing look out of the window into the street. 

« You find the confinement to the house irksome, as 
js natural,” replied Pluche, gravely. 


154 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

' “ Ah,” returned Thorel, “ there are moments when I 

would give my life willingly for the privilege of cross- 
ing the threshold and going across the street into the 
house opposite.” 

“ The house opposite,” returned Pluche, with a queer 
little smile, “ why the house opposite ? ” 

“ There is a woman I have seen at a window high up 
above me, a young woman sitting there sewing, who 
reminds me ” 

“ Reminds you of whom ? ” 

“ She sits there sewing, never raising her eyes from 
off the lace she is mending, but yet she is like, how like 
— but no, it is impossible — why should she be there, 
and in the disguise of a lace-mender ? ” 

“ But you have not told me yet of whom this seam- 
stress reminds you ? ” inquired Nicholas, still with that 
queer little smile on his lips. 

“ Of whom she reminds me ? Of whom but Clotilde, 
my wife,” murmured the other, sadly. 

“ I cannot allow you to look across the street at 
young women if it is going to make you impatient. 
You are my prisoner for the present, and I am such 
an obdurate jailer, I would keep even your thoughts 
from straying from your prison.” 

“ Thought is free ; however,” returned Thorel, smil- 
ing sadly, “ I will promise you not to endanger your 
life and that of your dear wife by breaking my captivity, 
and I will do my best to enact the rôle of an oil-mer- 
chant from the Provinces which you have laid out for 
me.” 

Just here, the door leading into the garden was opened, 
and a man appeared on the threshold of it. A tall, gaunt 
man, with a thin, clean-shaven face, and long, pointed 


Rue Hauteville. 


155 

nose. His tall form was clad in a vest and pantaloons 
of striped woollen, worn by the members of the Sections, 
a long red cotton night-cap, the end of which hung 
down over the left ear, was on his shaggy head. At 
sight of the new-comer, Nicholas whispered hurriedly to 
Thorel, 

“ Hush, danger — it is Publicola Verdier. The accent 
of the South, remember ! ” 

Citizen Verdier strode majestically into the room, 
looking about him suspiciously. Behind him appeared 
the figure of another man, young, tall, elegant in figure, 
with a smiling face, and head covered with short curls 
of brown hair. He resembled a bust of some young 
Roman emperor. 

Thorel threw a quick, examining glance at him. In 
Publicola Verdier, with his lean, gaunt figure and stern, 
ferocious countenance, it was easy to recognise a mem- 
ber of the society of Sans Culottes, a Spartan Republi- 
can. 

His companion, on the contrary, well-dressed, smiling, 
scented, seemed the incarnation of a gay ancient 
Republican of Athens. But why Athens ? Rather of 
Paris. 

Nicholas advanced towards V erdier with outstretched 
hand of welcome. 

“ Ah, Citizen Verdier, what happy chance has brought 
you here ? ” 

“ It is no chance, it is duty — my duty to the 
Republic. 

“ Indeed ? ” returned Pluche, uneasily, fearing that 
Verdier, having become suspicious of Andrê’s presence 
in the house, had come there to cross-examine him. 
“ And what is this duty to the Republic,” lie added, 


156 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

recollecting himself, “ which has sent you to my humble 
house — both of you here ? ” he added as an afterthought, 
with a glance in La Bussière ’s direction. 

“ A civic duty. I have had information that ” 

André still kept a brave front, but the sight of Ver- 
dier and the sound of his words made him realise what 
danger he was in, and, worse than that, how his pres- 
ence there imperilled the liberty, perhaps the lives, of his 
benefactors. 

“ Information concerning what ? ” returned Pluche, 
with his customary placid smile. 

“ Information has reached the Section of which I am 
president, that new faces have lately been seen in your 
dwelling. This man — who is he ? ” inquired he, with a 
suspicious glance in André’s direction. 

“ Citizen Larcenac, from my native province, and on 
a visit to me at present.’ , 

André added, not forgetting the southern accent, 

“ Oil merchant from Marseilles.’’ 

The stern face of Verdier brightened suddenly. 

“ Ah, ah, — good citizens, they of Marseilles — I, too, 
am from the provinces, from Toulouse.” 

“ We of Marseilles are proud to have been so fortu- 
nate as to have gained Citizen Publicola Verdier’s 
esteem,” returned André. 

“ They have heard of me in Marseilles, then ? ” 

“ Can you doubt it ? A man so energetic, so untiring 
in his services to the Republic ! ” 

Verdier smiled grimly, seemingly flattered, intro- 
ducing La Bussière to the Girondin : 

“ Charles La Bussière, and a neighbour of yours, 
Pluche, like myself.” 

“ I live in the house opposite,” 


Rue Hauteville. 


157 


“ Opposite ? ” 

“ Yes, in the same house with Publicola. I am an 
actor, as you yourself were once, and Citizen Verdier 
also.” 

“ A very poor one — I,” returned Nicholas modestly. 
“ I am a much better prompter than I ever was an 
actor. But you now, Citizen La Bussière, are an actor — 
an artist. You have created for yourself a rôle as 
Ricco, and your make-up was so perfect that I should 
never have known you again. You have set people 
talking of you.” 

“ Where, pray ? ” 

“ At the theatre ” 

“ Of the Nation, as the people of Marseilles are 
talking of Publicola Verdier.” 

“But you have created a furore at Mareux with 
your impersonation of young coxcombs and men of 
fashion. Only yesterday Sophie Clerval was talking 
to me about you — praising you to the skies.” 

“ Citizeness Clerval is too kind, — as kind as she is 
beautiful.” 

“ Mareux — who is Mareux ? ” exclaimed Thorel, in 
order to appear interested in what was going on about 
him. 

Pluche smiled pityingly. 

“ Citizen Larcenac is quite a stranger in Paris, you 
perceive. Mareux is proprietor of a theatre in the Rue 
St. Antoine, where comedy is very well played. La 
Bussière is the principal actor there.” 

“ The public are kind enough to applaud my acting, 
but they would have applauded me yet more heartily, 
had I béen willing, like Verdier here, to renounce my 
rOle of actor to take up with that of patriot.” Theu 


158 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

turning toward his companion, he added, “you were 
by the way of becoming a great tragedian.” 

“ Ah,” returned Verdier, in his metallic, resonant 
tpnes, “ I still act a part in a tragedy, and I shall die 
on the stage where I have played my part, I fancy, 
but I hope to do the state some service before I am 
called to die for it.” 

André could not repress a movement of admiration 
toward this stern, rugged patriot. If he were stern, 
fierce, cruel toward others, he was not less so toward 
himself, it was evident. 

Here, however, La Bussière gave an unexpected turn 
to the conversation by exclaiming suddenly: 

“ It seems, if my nose is to be trusted, you are going 
to have a veritable Lucullus feast here by-and-bye ; 

ah ” with a long sniff of the purest enjoyment — 

“what a delicious smell emanates from the kitchen. 
Citizeness Babet, I should imagine, has reason to be 
vain of her culinary skill. A potage is at this moment 
being prepared — a potage unparalleled in excellence. 
I can swear to it.” 

“ Is it the potage or Thorel he has smelt out with 
that Jacobin nose of his?” thought Pluche, uneasily, 
but he added, as calmly as possible : “ Perhaps as you 
find the smell of the soup so appetising, Citizen, you 
will not object to stay and taste it with us.” 

“ With the greatest pleasure,” returned the other. 
“You see, Pluche, that Citizeness Babet’s fame as a 
cook is well known to all of us in the quarter. 

“ Confound him,” thought the master of the house, 
“I wish the soup would poison him. You, too,” he 
added, turning toward Verdier, “will also do us the 
honour of dining with us ? ” 


Rue Hauteville. 


159 

The patriot answered coldly that pressing business at 
the Commune would, he thought, prevent his accepting 
the invitation, but La Bussière, interposing eagerly, 
exclaimed : 

“Nonsense, Citizen Verdier, let the business of the 
Section wait awhile — man must eat ” 

“ Well, I will go see,” returned his colleague, “ but,” 
fixing his eyes suspiciously on Thorel, “ I will return in 
time for your dinner.” Then, turning towards André, 
he said, “ Au revoir, Citizen — Citizen ” 

“ Larcenac,” returned the Girondin, calmly. 

The tall, gaunt form of the Sectioner disappeared 
through the door, and Thorel and Pluche found them- 
selves left with La Bussière on their hands, of whom 
they knew nothing, except that he was a follower of 
Verdier’s, and had invited himself to dine with them. 
Oh, if Babet had only known what guests she was to 
have at dinner that day, how she would have over- 
salted, over-peppered her dishes and lost her reputation 
as a cook for ever I 


i6o 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 


CHAPTER XII. 

CHARLES LA BUSSIERE. 

La Bussiere was one of the dandies of the Jacobin 
Club. He gave himself the air of looking upon the 
grim sights of the Terror with the scrutinising, impartial 
eyes with which he would have gazed upon an actor 
making his début in a tragedy. Still young, he had 
won fame as an actor. Before the Revolution he had 
been an officer and an aristocrat, becoming, however, 
very soon after its breaking out, a member of the Sec- 
tion and the âme damné of Publicola Verdier. It was 
the Princess de Lamballe who had procured the brevet 
of lieutenant for him. 

Yet, before the first portents of the Revolution ap- 
peared on the country’s skies, he had quitted the court 
to become the manager of a theatre. His acting created 
a furor in Paris. On the outbreak of the Revolution, 
he quitted the stage and was made clerk of the 
Records of the Section over which Publicola Verdier 
presided. 

Nicholas Pluche had no doubt at all left in his mind 
but that he had accompanied Verdier to his dwelling to 
denounce and arrest Thorel. 

“ Poor Citizen Thorel — Poor Viscount Puyjoli ! How 
danger dogs their footsteps,” he sighed, quite forgetting 
that by sheltering “suspects” he was himself in as 
great peril as they. 


Charles La Bussière. 161 

Hardly had Verdier quitted the room when La Bus- 
sière exclaimed, laughingly: 

“I know why Citizen Verdier is in such haste to 
return to the Section.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Because his adversary, Citizen Laroque, is to speak 
there.” 

“What has made Laroque the adversary of Publicola 
Verdier? ” 

“ What, you do not know — you are not aware, then, 
that Citizen Verdier has had his marital troubles ? ” 

Pluche could not resist glancing at Thorel, who had 
grown pale at La Bussière’s last words. 

“ I live,” the visitor went on, carelessly, “ directly 
opposite you. I inhabit a little room under the roof 
there, and I have for a neighbour a woman who makes 
me — makes me, you understand — believe in angels. 

u A woman — there ? ” asked Thorel, eagerly. 

“Yes, there at the window. You can see her.” 

“ Who is this woman ? ” 

“ A seamstress, a lace-mender ; a beautiful woman, 
and honest, strange to say. The other night, Verdier’s 
child, a little creature of five, was taken sick suddenly. 
The father was quite beside himself with anxiety. We 
men, you know, are awkward nurses. Our neighbour 
was awakened by the noise in the next room and the 
moans of a child. She got up, dressed herself and 
came in. She remained all night at the bedside of the 
little one, caring for him as a mother might have done, 
and she has taken him under her charge ever since.” 

“ What is the name of this woman ? ” inquired 
André. 

“ Thérèse Barbier.” 

il 


IÔ2 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ Ali ! ” he exclaimed, in a tone which betrayed dis- 
appointment. 

“ A woman like her will never deceive and desert 
— when she marries — her husband, as Publicola’s wife 
has done.” 

“ Publicola’s wife deceived, deserted him ! ” inquired 
Pluche, astonished. 

“ About two years ago, it is now, that Cornelia — her 
name is Cornelia — left him to go and live with his 
opponent in the Section, Laroque. Ever since then 
Citizen Laroque has quarrelled with Verdier at the 
Section. It is in that way he thanks him for his wife,” 
continued La Bussière, laughing. “ Poor Verdier is to 
be pitied,” he added. “ He was really very fond of his 
wife. In fact, he worshipped her.” 

While La Bussière was speaking, the door leading 
from the cellar was opened gently and Pluche, looking 
in that direction saw, to his horror, the fresh, laughing, 
handsome face of a young man appear at it. This really 
beautiful and aristocratic countenance was surmounted 
by a horrible wig of red, tangled hair, drawn down low 
upon the forehead ; upon the wig a torn, shabby, 
three-cornered hat of felt was set jauntily. 

The bright, laughing eyes of the new-comer glanced 
half-miscliievously, half-deprecatingly, towards the mas- 
ter of the house, asking permission to enter the 
room. Pluche made a furtive but emphatic gesture in 
the negative. Just then, however, La Bussière, whose 
ears were quick, hearing the slight noise made by the 
opening of the door, turned round suddenly, exclaiming : 

“ Hold ! — whom have we here ? ” 

“ The stud-groom,” thought André to himself, with a 
glance at the new-comer. 


Charles La Bussiere. 


163 

“ You have not yet told us who it is,” began La Bus- 
sière again, looking suspiciously at Nicholas. The 
prompter-smiled calmly. “ The citizen spoke a short 
time ago of having observed some new faces in my 
humble domicile. Well, this is one of them, the second 
one. Allow me to introduce to you Citizen Martial 
Plantade, stud groom at Pompadour at Limousin.” 

At the first word uttered by Pluche, the stranger 
stepped over the threshold of the door, and, drawing 
himself up to his full height, calmly confronted Thorel 
and La Bussière. In every movement of this pretended 
groom there was an air of grace and elegance not at all 
in keeping with a torn and shabby riding-coat of a dirty 
coffee-colour. 

La Bussière laughed scornfully at the unlucky name 
Pompadour. 

“ Hum ! ” he ejaculated, “ Pompadour — the name is 
certainly an old-fashioned one.” 

“It might be changed to please you,” replied the 
new-comer, with calm politeness quite incongruous 
with his attire. 

“ You,” continued La Bussière, “ are in the employ 
of the Nation, a groom of the stud at Pompadour?” 

“ Yes, Cit-cit-citizen, at your service,” he stammered, 
perceptibly in pronouncing the word citizen. La Bus- 
sière set him down carelessly for tongue-tied. 

“ Ha,” he answered, “ all the couriers I can boast of 
are those furnished me by Dame Nature,” he slapped 
his legs as he spoke. Suddenly perceiving a collection 
of arms hanging on the wall opposite him, he exclaimed, 

“What have you there — swords? Citizen Verdier 
will probably report you to the Commune for keeping 
an armory in your dwelling.” 


164 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ Oh,” returned the prompter. “ Those weapons are 
not at all dangerous — a few stage swords and daggers 
— a present from Citizen Fleury.” 

“ As to their not being dangerous, I cannot answer 
for that. I once fought a duel with tin swords and 
succeeded in killing my antagonist.” 

The groom of the stud raised his eyebrows scornfully 
at this boast of the comedian. 

Citizen Pluche, who admired La Bussière exceed- 
ingly as an actor, would have, for all that, given all he 
possessed to see him out of his house now. He trembled 
at what contretemps might happen, now that Puyjoli 
had joined the party. 

On pretext of speaking on business to Thorel, he 
took him apart into a small room fitted up. as a library, 
adjoining the dining-room, and, pushing an encyclopedia 
toward him said : — 

“ You had better read up a little what it says here 
about oils. I am afraid you could not pass an examina- 
tion on the subject.” 

Then, having succeeded in separating the Girondin 
and Puyjoli, he hurried back to the dining-room to see 
how he and the Jacobin were getting on together. He 
was astonished to find Puyjoli alone there. 

“ You are looking for the gentleman who was here a 
moment ago? he has just gone into the kitchen to give 
your wife some advice about dinner. He pretends to 
be a second Vatel in his knowledge of the science of 
cooking. I hope you are not jealous. I do not think 
you need be.” 

“Of Babet?” returned Nicholas, smiling, “hardly. 
But now that we have a moment alone together, do 
listen to a word or two of advice. Why in the name 


Charles La Bussiëre. 


165 

of all that is sensible did you make your appearance on 
the stage before being called? You are mad, Viscount 
— positively mad.” 

“Now,” returned Puyjoli, “where is the danger? 
Look at me and confess you would never have re- 
cognised me.” 

“No,” returned Pluche, examining him judicially, “I 
certainly should not. You grimace almost as well as 
La Bussière himself. You are a born actor.” 

“ Upon my word I believe so. I think I could give 
my coachman himself points on horses, if I still had one, 
but my coachman, he is now a member of the Com- 
mune ! ” And Puyjoli burst into a clear, ringing laugh. 

“ I have one more thing to tell you. You are not to 
speak of politics. Take care also not to scoff at the 
powers that be. Silence — absolute silence on that 
point. You have given your promise on that, however 
little you value your life.” 

“ But, parbleu — I do value it ? ” Puyjoli exclaimed, 
swinging his hat, with a great tri-colour worsted cockade 
gaily around his head. “ I have Sophie to console, and,” 
here he dropped his voice so low that Pluche could not 
distinguish what he was saying, “and Mademoiselle 
de Louverchal to conquer, and,” raising his voice again, 
“ Paris to wander about again — Paris, my Paradise.” 

“ At present, Citizen Viscount,” returned Pluche, 
drily, “ all of Paris you can have will be this humble 
dwelling, your hiding-place.” 

“ I know, I know, Pluche, and I will do nothing to 
endanger your safety, my kind, brave old friend, be 
assured of that.” 

“ Hush, hush,” returned Pluche, warningly, with a 
gesture in the direction of the kitchen. 


ï66 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

Puyjoli went on, however, speaking gaily, though in 
a low voice. 

“Think of it, Pluche, before coming here, I passed 
three days in a wardrobe, where I could not turn with- 
out barking my shins. With you, I have been stowed 
away in a cellar, whence I emerge covered with mould, 
which, though admirable on a bottle, is horrible on a 
riding-coat, as you perceive. Still I am in Paris, and 
that thought is a consolation in itself.” 

At that moment they heard a hoarse voice crying 
aloud in the street a list of names. 

“It is the crier! Your name is probably in the list 
of the * suspects’ .” 

“ And what if it is ? ” returned the other, laughing. 
“ It only proves that I have not been forgotten by the 
world outside. Really, I am quite flattered.” 

“ Silence. Will you never be serious ? ” 

“Serious, — why should I be? Your oil-merchant 
from the Provinces is serious enough for both of us.” 

“ Citizen Larcenac ? He is a furious Republican. For 
Heaven’s sake, do not get into a discussion with him.” 

“Indeed, I will be prudent, Pluche. I tell you I 
want to live.” 

“ I should think so, at your age.” 

“ I wish to live for a woman, a woman Hove, and shall 
perhaps never see again, and for my brother, of whose 
fate I am quite ignorant.” 

“ Your brother ? ” 

“Yes, my brother, Gérard de Monpazier, the kindest, 
the best of brothers. He risked- his head to come here 
to Paris just to see me.” Here Puyjoli rapidly related 
the incident of Monpazier’s coming to him and leaving 
him afterward to seek shelter with André Thorel. 


Charles La Bussière. 


167 


“ With Thorel ? ” 

“ Yes. He and my brother were friends at school 
together. God knows how I will love that Girondin, 
if it is to him that my poor Gerard owes his safety.” 

Nicholas Pluche, enchanted, could hardly believe 
his ears. Thorel the friend of Puyjoli’s brother ! It 
was like a scene in a comedy. For a moment he was 
tempted to tell the Viscount that the pretended oil-mer- 
chant was Thorel himself. He decided, however, to 
wait until La Bussière should have taken his departi^re* 
Rubbing his hands gaily, he exclaimed instead : 

“ As there seems no sign of dinner just at present, I 
think I’ll be off to the theatre. Some of the company 
are sick. There will probably be some changes made in 
consequence. I will fly thither, and be with you again 
as soon as possible. I leave you and Larcenac to enter- 
tain each other. Do not forget your rôle, but endeavour 
to do credit to my coaching. Au revoir” 

He hurried into the adjoining room where Thorel 
still sat languidly turning over the leaves of the en- 
cyclopedia. Bending over him, Pluche whispered into 
his ear mysteriously : 

“ Be prudent.” 

Thorel smiled. “ Your groom of the stud is a Jaco- 
bin, probably.” 

“ A ferocious one. But, above all things, be on your 
guard with La Bussière.” As he opened the street- 
door, the voice of the crier crying loudly in the street, 
was heard plainly : 

“ Here you are — full and complete list ! Only two 
souls ! ” 

u Oh,” exclaimed Puyjoli irritably, “ we are not at all 
deaf yet. Our friend the crier might moderate his 


1 68 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

voice a little.” He glanced at the reflection of his face 
and figure in a mirror opposite. “ How Sophie would 
laugh to see me tricked out in this way. A pupil of 
master Pluche. Well, I fancy I am not the only one 
here in the house to-day. That Monsieur Tartenac — 
Partinac — Cardinac — that oil-merchant from the Pro- 
vinces is another, I’ll wager. And the oil-merchant 
and the groom must entertain each other. I like him, 
however, a thousand times better than that dandy Ja- 
cobin and Red Republican, La Bussière.” He walked 
up to the window as he spoke, and stood there, gazing 
out absently. Suddenly he caught sight of a female 
figure sitting at the garret window opposite, and ex- 
claimed wonderingly : 

“ Upon my soul, I think I know that face. It is cer- 
tainly Clotilde Ponyade, or I am losing my eyesight.” 

Just then Thorel entered the room. Puyjoli, whose 
back was toward him, who still continued to gaze 
fixedly out of the window, was quite unaware of his 
presence. 

“ What can he be looking at,” thought Thorel, jeal- 
ously, and, approaching the window, he exclaimed ab- 
ruptly, 

“ Citizen.” 

“ Eh — what ? ” exclaimed the Viscount, turning abrupt- 
ly, and looking at him haughtily. Then, recollecting 
himself, he bowed to Thorel. 

“ Mons Citizen ! ” He pronounced the word 

“ citizen” with the same difficulty as before. 

“ I see,” continued the other, “ that the scenes in the 
street outside interest you, Citizen.” 

“ Everything in Paris interests me,” replied Puyjoli 
gaily. 


Charles La Bussière. 


169 

“ When one has but newly arrived in Paris,” contin- 
ued André, not forgetting to use the southern accent 
in speaking 

“ Like you,” interrupted Puyjoli. 

“ Like you and me, we find everything in Paris inter- 
esting. The women, the citizens, the horses ” 

“ Oh, the horses ! ” returned Puyjoli, disdainfully. 

“You do not seem to care about the horses. I im- 
agine you are not in love with your occupation.” 

“ And you — probably detest the oil trade.” 

“ Quite so.” 

“Nicholas Pluche informed me that you were in 
business at Aix?” inquired the stud-groom. 

“ At Aix.” 

“ City where Parliament sits. Pretty women there, 
too. I had an uncle, a former President of the Parlia- 
ment ” 

“ An uncle — President ! ” exclaimed Thorel, aston- 
ished. 

“ Puyjoli corrected himself quickly enough. 

“ When I say uncle I mean a patron. I sold him a 
magnificent — chestnut — yes, it was a chestnut I sold 
him, I remember.” 

Andre listened absently. Suddenly he asked ab- 
ruptly, 

“ What were you looking at so intently ? ” 

“ I ? ” returned Puyjoli. “ Oh, at nothing. A woman 
opposite.” 

“ Really,” replied the other, this time forgetting the 
southern accent, “ a woman ? ” 

“ Less even than that — the shadow of a woman.” 

“At the house opposite?” 

“Yes.” 


1 7o Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ Do you know her ? ” 

“Know her? How should I know her? Do you 
know her, citizen ? ” 

André hesitated a moment, and then answered with 
difficulty, 

“No, I do not know her.” 

“Well,” returned Puyjoli, “to tell you the truth I 
thought I detected in her ” 

“ A resemblance to somebody you know ? ” inquired 
André hoarsely. 

“Hardly a resemblance; but she makes me think of 
some one I knew formerly.” Puyjoli had in speaking, 
involuntarily dropped the light, rallying tone he had 
hitherto employed in speaking with Thorel. “ A mem- 
ory of far-off Limousin,” he added, to turn suspicion. 
“But, after all, Citizen, when one looks up at the sky, 
at the first glance all the stars seem alike to him.” 

“ A resemblance, a recollection of some one he once 
knew,” thought André, uneasily ; “ who is this man, I 
wonder.” 

All this time the Viscount, extremely annoyed at 
Andre’s pertinacity, was devoting him to the furies. 

“ Here is a man from the Provinces, who drops his 
accent and takes it up again when it suits him. Con- 
found him ! Poor Clotilde ! Does any danger threaten 
her from this quarter, I wonder ? ” 

Babet now entered the room, looking rather annoyed, 
and followed by La Bussière, smiling and rattling on as 
usual. At that very moment, as if in response to a 
summons, Pluche himself came home again. With 
him, out of breath and perspiring, his friend, Maximilian 
Médard. 

“Well,” whispered Nicholas to his wife, taking ad- 


Charles La Bussière. 171 

vantage of a moment when the attention of the others 
was attracted elsewhere, “ here we have our two guests 
together.” 

Babet made no answer. She had her eyes fixed in a 
terror-stricken gaze on La Bussière, who, standing 
against the wall with his hands thrust deep down in his 
pockets, appeared to be taking an inventory of every- 
thing in the room. Friend Maximilian was smiling 
and bowing in turn to the three strangers, mopping his 
face as he did so with a handkerchief having a tri- 
coloured border. 

Pluche drew his wife up to Puyjoli, and, speaking so 
every one could hear him, exclaimed, 

“My dear Babet, let me introduce to you my young 
friend, Martial, whose arrival we have been expecting 
for a week past.” 

Puyjoli bowed deeply. 

“ Mad ; ” he corrected himself slowly, “ Cit- 

izeness, I am charmed to make your acquaintance.” 

“Well?” inquired Pluche, drawing the Viscount 
aside, and glancing in the direction of Thorel. 

“ Oh, we are the best friends in the world.” 

“ Good.” 

Then, going up to Thorel in his turn, he whispered, 

“You did not forget your rôle, I trust?” 

“No, no,” returned the other, absently; “I have 
studied your encyclopedia so well that I could pass an 
examination in all the oils of France and Italy.” 

He, Nicholas noticed, however, hardly took his eyes 
off Puyjoli. 

“ They have quite fallen in love with each other,” 
thought the worthy prompter, delighted. 

“ Well, well, Babet,” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands 


172 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

gleefully, “ is not it time that the table was set for din- 
ner ? Citizen La Bussière must be dying with hunger.” 

“ I have, I must confess, an appetite,” replied the 
other, smiling. 

“We are expecting another guest,” Pluche contin- 
ued, Citizen Verdier .” He laid a stress on the name, 
as a warning to Thorel and Puyjoli. 

“ He will be here in time. He is always punctual. 
A man exact — rigid, in fact — in the performance of the 
slightest duty. A man whose word is law — a true 
patriot.” 

Gaston’s upper lip curled sarcastically at this eulogy 
of the Red Republican. Fortunately, however, La. 
Bussière was not at that moment looking in his 
direction. 


Clotilde. 


i73 


CHAPTER XIII. 

CLOTILDE. 

“ Ï, too, am dying of hunger,” exclaimed Maximilian 
Médard, “and of thirst also. How hot it is! Shall 
not I help you set the table, Citizeness Babet ? ” 

“No, thank you, Médard, I shall be done in a mo- 
ment.” She broke off suddenly, her face turning as 
white as the tablecloth she held in her hand at the 
sound of uproar in the street outside. 

“ What can be the matter ! ” exclaimed Pluche. 

“ Oh,” returned La Bussière, “ there seems to be a 
tumult outside.” 

Médard trotted up to the door, and opening it slightly, 
peered out. 

“ There is a woman running — a young woman pur- 
sued by a crowd — yes, upon my word, pursued ” 

Gaston stepped up quickly to the door, and stood 
there, looking out over the little man’s head. 

La Bussière ran to the window. 

“ She is coming in this direction ! ” 

At that very moment a young woman dressed as a 
seamstress came flying through the little garden up 
toward the door which Puyjoli held open for her. 

At sight of the new-comer, André turned livid. 
He had recognised his wife under her disguise. Puy- 
joli, also, was filled with consternation. 


174 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ The poor child is going to faint ! ” exclaimed 
Babet, putting her arm around the young woman’s 
waist and placing her gently in a chair. “ Pluche — 
Citizen Médard — some water ! ” 

Médard flew for a tumbler of water, which Pluche 
held to her lips. 

“ Drink, Citizeness, you are safe here.” 

“ Those men are no longer there ? ” whispered Clo- 
tilde, trembling, fearing to betray herself before 
Médard, who was a stranger to her. 

“ What men ? ” inquired Babet. “ The men outside the 
door? Citizen La Bussière has gone out to speak to them. 
I hope he is not goingto bring them in here with him.” 

“ He seems rather to have succeeded in sending them 
off,” returned Médard, who had returned to his post at 
the door. “ Look ! they are going away.” 

“Yes,” answered Thorel, “ they are going away, and 
quietly ! ” 

A ray of joy lightened the eyes and fired the pale 
cheeks of the woman at the sound of Thorel’s voice. 
She gazed rapturously in his direction, but he had 
turned his back on her. 

“ What was the reason of the crowd’s pursuing you, 
Citizeness ? ” inquired Pluche of her. 

“ I had gone out as usual to take some work back.” 

“Was not that you who, a short time before, were 
seated at the window opposite ? ” inquired Puyjoli. 

She nodded slightly, and continued : 

“ As I was passing by the railing of the garden of 
the Luxembourg, I perceived that I was followed 
by a crowd of men and women. Had I drawn atten- 
tion upon myself by an unwary word or gesture? 
I do not know. I felt instinctively, however, 


Clotilde. 


175 

that I had in some ‘way unconsciously excited 
the animosity of the persons surrounding me. I began 
to walk faster. They followed me. I broke at last 
into a run. My pursuers quickened their pace, too, 
and kept up with me. Fortunately at the crossing at 
the corner of the Rue Hauteville, a press of vehicles 
and foot passengers enabled me to elude the eyes of 
the most of them, but there were still some who 
kept doggedly at my heels until I succeeded in reach- 
ing your door. How thankful I am to you for the 
shelter which came just in time. But, as my presence 

will probably be dangerous to you ” She rose 

from her chair and took a step towards the door. 

“ Of what are you thinking, my dear child? ” exclaimed 
Nicholas. “ As if we should listen for a moment to 
your leaving us now. You might be attacked again.” 

“ Charles La Bussière now entered the room. 

“There is no longer any danger. You have no idea 
how eloquent I was. The blackguards have gone. 
You will be quite safe, Citizeness.” 

“ You here, Citizen La Bussière ! ” exclaimed Clotilde. 

“ At your service, my fair neighbour.” 

André stood there, listening angrily; the fingers of 
his right hand clutched the back of his chair. Again, 
as in that night of the 2nd of June, the recollection 
of her voice speaking in terms of endearment to her 
lover concealed in the pavilion, returned to him. Had 
they by any chance found themselves alone together, 
André’s first words to his wife would have been those 
of anger and contempt. 

Clotilde’s sensations, on the contrary, were those of 
rapturous, unalloyed happiness at finding herself be- 
neath the same roof with her adored husband. She 


176 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

felt an imperious desire to ask Pluche to find her an 
opportunity for her to exchange a word — but one 
word, in private with André. 

“ I beg you,” she said in a whisper to Pluche, who 
found himself near her, “ to take these men away. I 
must speak a word to you.” 

“You?” 

“I implore you.” 

“ Do not you think,” inquired Pluche of his guests, 
that while dinner is getting ready, you would find it 
pleasanter in the garden? Besides, the Citizeness 
would probably recover more quickly from her fright 
if we left her and my wife alone together.” 

The men agreed willingly. La Bussière had attached 
himself to Médard, and the two were deep in a dis- 
cussion on music. 

“ When the three were alone together, Clotilde ex- 
claimed : 

“I did not know, Citizen Pluche, until now, that 
you had given refuge to two fugitives.” 

“ Merciful Heaven ! ” exclaimed Babet. “ You know, 
then?” 

“That André Thorel’s companion in misery is the 
Viscount de Puyjoli.” 

“ Citizeness, Citizeness, in the name of Heaven, do 
not speak so loud,” begged Babet. 

“You quite mistake, Citizeness,” returned Pluche 
blandly, “the person of whom you speak is Citizen 
Martial Plantade, stud-groom from the provinces.” 

“ You have nothing to fear from me, Citizen Pluche. 
I know Monsieur de Puyjoli, and I would do as much 
as you, did it lie in my power, to shield and defend 
him. He is the friend of my childhood, — he ” 


Clotilde. 


177 

“ Then he is acquainted with Citizen Thorel also ? ” 

“ No,” returned Clotilde. “ It is, after all, not neces- 
sary that they should become acquainted at present 
with each other. I learned only to-day that the spies 
of the Convention are on my husband’s track. I had 
gone to visit one of the members who said to me, “ Take 
care of yourself, Citizeness. You are wrong to remind 
us daily that you are the wife of the Girondin, Thorel, 
the friend of traitors and the accomplice of rebels.” 

“The devil ! ” exclaimed Pluche, “ the Convention, it 
seems, has begun to arrest women. Citizeness Roland 
has been thrown into prison for no other reason, it ap- 
pears, than that her husband has so far been able to 
elude his pursuers.” 

“Well, Citizen Pluche,” returned Clotilde, earnestly, 
“ as at any moment I may be denounced and thrown 
into prison, I implore you to allow me five minutes 
alone with my husband. Only five minutes, and when 
I have spoken with him, I will go away and never 
trouble you again.” 

“ Citizeness Thorel,” returned Pluche quickly, “ the 
little room next this one is at your service.” 

“Well, well!” ejaculated Babet, “three ‘suspects’ 
at once in the house. Oh, what will become of us, I 
wonder ? ” 

“ Dear, brave Citizen Pluche,” cried Clotilde, seizing 
his hand and raising it to her lips in spite of his efforts 
to prevent her, “ how good, how kind you are to every- 
body.” 

“ It is only a habit I have got into,” he returned with 
a shrug of his shoulders. “ I have grown tired of read- 
ing the daily list of the guillotined. It has grown too 
confoundedly long of late.” 

12 


178 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 


VOLUME SECOND. 

The Ninth of Thermidor. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE DINNER AT CITIZEN PLTJCHE’S. 

From the day when she had hired a lodging in the 
house directly opposite Nicholas Pluche, Clotilde had 
longed for an opportunity for an interview with her 
husband. His persistent refusal to allow her to come 
to him, his neglect to send her even a line, had filled 
her heart with alarm and grief. 

She could find no reason at all for his strangely un- 
kind treatment of her. She had now lived hidden away 
for some weeks in the old dwelling, happy when by 
any chance she caught a glimpse of her husband’s pale 
face at the window opposite. 

Citizeness Barbier, the porter observed with plea- 
sure, saw nobody, rarely exchanged a word with the 
other lodgers, but passed her days working diligently at 
her needle. 

Her pale face and sad air caused the porter to observe 
one day to La Bussière, who had come in to chat with 
him in his den, that the new lodger, “ would never 
make old bones,” 


The Dinner at Citizen Pluche’s. 179 

“ Bah, Citizen,” returned the other, “ do not you know 
that it is the frail pots which last the longest? ” 

It was a pleasuie for La Bussière to have an oppor- 
tunity to speak of Citizeness Barbier. Her air of suffer- 
ing and resignation, her silence and reserve, served only 
to render her more interesting in his eyes. 

She, on her part, knowing him to be an employee of 
the Committee of Public Safety, quaked with fear if he 
only passed her on the staircase. 

I11 the house, Clotilde knew no one except La Bus- 
sière. Though she had come to the assistance of Yer- 
dier’s child, he, distracted with grief and terror at the 
sudden sickness of the little one, had accepted her ser- 
vices mechanically and without noticing or charging his 
memory in any way with her appearance. Clotilde on 
her part, had been filled with aversion and horror at 
contact with Verdier. He was in her eyes the embodi- 
ment of danger to her beloved husband. She had 
watched his visit to Pluche’s house that morning with 
dismay, imagining that it would probably prove an 
ominous one to the fugitive hidden there. Now, find- 
ing herself beneath the same roof with her husband, 
quite by accident, she could hardly realize what had 
happened. 

André disguised — Puyjoli in motley attire — both 
guests of the prompter ! It made her head reel. The 
loud voice of the crier, crying aloud the list of “suspects ” 
was, however, a proof to Clotilde that she was awake. 

She glanced at Pluche — Pluche, who, by opening his 
doors to these denounced and suspected persons, had 
put his own head in danger. The worthy prompter, how- 
ever, seemed troubled with no ominous forebodings. 

On Babet’s entering the dining-room with a smoking 


i8o Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

tureen of soup, he made haste to call his guests to the 
table. After they were seated, Puyjoli, finding himself 
next to Clotilde, whispered : 

“ My dear Clotilde, how happy I am to see you here. 
And your husband, a fugitive like me, I understand ; I 
hope, however, he is in safety.” 

“ Hush,” returned Clotilde, knowing André’s eyes 
were fixed on her. “ If Pluehe’s guest opposite us 
should notice our speaking so confidentially, it might 
cause him to be suspicious of us.” 

“ You are quite right, Citizeness Babet, not to wait 
for the laggard Publicola,” La Bussière was heard ex- 
claiming gaily. “ A man who comes late to such a din- 
ner is unworthy of any consideration whatever.” 

“ May the devil have flown away with Citizen Ver- 
dier,” Puyjoli muttered under his breath, when just 
then Publicola made his appearance. 

“ Well,” exclaimed Nicholas, forcing a smile, “ dinner 
is waiting for you, Citizen Verdier.” 

“The potage would have been burned in another 
moment,” Babet added. 

Publicola bowed rigidly to Citizens Plantade and 
Larcenac. Perceiving Clotilde, he inquired harshly, 

“ Who is that ? ” 

“ That f ” returned Puyjoli, looking haughtily at him. 

“ Yes,” returned Verdier, “you gave me no reason to 
expect I should find another guest here, Citizen Pluche, 
when you invited me this morning.” Then, turning to 
Puyjoli, he inquired abruptly, “ the citizeness is your 
wife ? ” 

“ No,” answered the Viscount, briefly. 

“ I assure you,” the prompter interposed here, “ the 
citizeness is a friend of ours — an intimate friend. She 


The Dinner at Citizen Pluche’s. 181 


lodges opposite in the same house with you.” He 
stopped abruptly, remembering that he did not know 
under what name Clotilde was living there. 

Clotilde arose from her chair and went bravely up to 
Publicola. 

“ I am Citizeness Thérèse Barbier, and a fellow-lodger 
of yours, Citizen Verdier.” 

A fellow-lodger of mine !” exclaimed Verdier, as- 
tonished. 

“ Of ours,” interposed La Bussière. 

“Yes. Have you never noticed me?” 

“I never notice women,” returned Verdier, brutally. 

He examined her now closely, however, struck visibly 
with the contrast between her delicate beauty and dis- 
tinguished bearing and her garb of a washing-woman. 

“ Pretty,” he murmured, “ and her hands. Let me 
look at your hands,” he said imperiously. 

André Thorel involuntarily made a movement to place 
himself between Clotilde and her persecutor. Nicholas 
drew him back quickly. 

“ They are white, — your hands,” he continued, gazing 
down at them, “ white and small. They have never 
done much work — those hands of yours.” 

“ Enough to enable me to earn my own living by 
them,” she returned, smiling sadly. 

“You have a trade ? ” 

“Yes, Citizen, I am a lace-mender.” 

“A lace-mender ! Your occupation is quite an aris- 
tocratic one.” 

“ Ah,” exclaimed La Bussière, “ that is the reason, 
probably, that Citizeness Barbier’s hands bear no marks 
of the needle. She has very little work to do, most 
likely, her patrons having all left the country.” 


182 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ That is probably the reason,” Nicholas Pluche in- 
terposed, with a feeling of gratitude toward La 
Bussière, for coming to Clotilde’s rescue. 

Publicola, still continuing to keep his eyes fixed on 
her, now perceived a ring on the third finger of her 
left hand, and asked abruptly : 

“ Are you married ? ” 

“ I am a widow,” answered Clotilde, with a 
glance in André’s direction, who grew pale as death at 
her words. 

“ Let me look at that ring,” Publicola commanded, 
holding out his great, bony hand toward her. 

Clotilde hesitated. 

“ But Citizen ” 

“ Upon my word ! ” Puyjoli exclaimed impatiently, 
while André gnawed his lips till the blood came. 

Verdier had, however, removed the ring from the 
finger of the reluctant Clotilde. The ring was a wed- 
ding-ring, formed of two small rings fastened together. 
He opened it, and looked closely at something which 
was engraved inside. 

“Ah,” he returned after a pause, “you have just 
told me that your name is Thérèse Barbier.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ But the names written in here ? ” 

“ The names ? ” 

“ Yes, the names. You know very well there is no 
such name as Thérèse here,” and he read aloud the 
names written within, “André — Clotilde.” 

André could contain himself no longer. Going up to 
the Jacobin, he took the ring quickly out of his hands, 
saying as he did so ; 

“ Is not it quite probable that the ring may not be the 


The Dinner at Citizen Pluche’s. 183 

property of her who is now wearing it, or may not have 
been a gift to her or an heirloom ? Could not it have 
been her mother’s ? Have you yourself never worn a 
ring which you cherished as a souvenir of some friend 
or relation ? ” 

“Fine words, Citizen,” returned Publicola, “but as 
the date inside the ring is 1791, it could not be an heir- 
loom or even her mother’s wedding-ring. The Citizen- 
ess is young, but she is certainly more than three years 
old.” 

“ This date is it necessary that it should mark a day 
of joy ? May not it possibly recall a day of sorrow — 
of mourning ? ” answered Andie, handing the ring back 
to his wife. 

Publicola shrugged his lean shoulders under his car- 
magnole, and continued in his metallic tones: 

“ Possibly, but Thérèse or Clotilde, whichever you 
may call yourself, have a care ; there are in Paris, 
female Federalists as well as male ones, and as the 
Republic will be lost on the day when Bugot and his 
friends are triumphant, I shall keep a sharp eye on all 
Girondins and Federalists, male and female.” 

“ You will not have far to seek me when you de- 
sire to arrest me,” returned Clotilde, throwing back 
her head proudly, “I live in the same house with 
you.” 

“ For a very short time, then,” he returned. 

“ Since that day when your child fell sick and I came 
to his bedside to nurse him.” 

Upon the cold, stern visage of the man a sudden 
change appeared. 

“ What ! It was you who came to nurse him ? The 
little one has ever since urged me daily to go in search 


184 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

of you that I might thank you. Well, — I do thank 
you. Let your name be Clotilde, Thérèse — what you 
will — I do thank you from my heart, I thank you for 
all your kindness to my child — my forsaken, mother- 
less child,” and as he spoke he held out his hand to 
her. 

Nicholas Pluche, delighted at the happy turn of 
things, now exclaimed impatiently, 

“ Come — come to dinner. Everything will be stone 
cold.” 

“ You are right,” cried La Bussière, gaily ; “ now we 
can change the conversation, fortunately. Rings — 
mothers — children ; it is as touching as one of Mer- 
cier’s melodramas, but I, for my part, abhor melodrama. 
Citizeness Barbier, will }mu take your seat again at the 
table ? ” 

Hardly had the company ro-seated themselves, when 
the rolling of drums, coming every moment nearer, 
disturbed them again. 

“The devil take those drums ! We must be off to 
the Section again, I suppose, eh, Verdier?” exclaimed 
La Bussière, impatiently. 

“ If duty calls you, citizens,” began Nicholas, visibly 
relieved at the prospect of being rid of his unwelcome 
guests. 

“Duty calls me, perhaps,” returned La Bussière, 
plunging his spoon into his soup, “ but I shall first give 
ear to the call of hunger. Excellent potage — yours — 
Citizeness. Delicious, indeed.” 

“ Have some more ? ” asked Babet. 

“ Ah, yes, if you please. I must acknowledge your 
soup will spoil the enjoyment of my black broth for 
days to comç,” 


The Dinner at Citizen Pluche’s. 185 

“ Black broth,” returned Puyjoli, scornfully ; “ is 
that the prescribed diet of a patriot ? ” 

While speaking he had been gazing down absently at 
his plate. Suddenly he exclaimed, brusquely, 

“ What is this — what is this ? ” 

“What?” 

“ This picture on this plate here.” 

Nicholas returned quickly, 

“ That ? Oh, that is a picture of the destruction of 
the Bastille.” 

“ The destruction?” 

“ Of the Bastille. And that is Thuriot, urging on the 
people.” 

“The Bastille — Thuriot — it is impossible for me,” 
exclaimed the pretended stud-groom, “ to eat off a plate 
like this.” 

“ You object to put such a work of art to such a 
humble usage ? Babet, bring another,” Nicholas inter- 
posed quickly. But, with a flick of his sleeve, the Vis- 
count had already thrown the plate from the table, 
breaking it in pieces. Nicholas stooped quickly to pick 
it up. La Bussière examined Puyjoli, and Verdier 
remarked in his deep, hollow voice : 

“Is it possible that the representation of the first 
triumph of the French people over their oppressors can 
displease you, citizen ? ” 

“Nicholas, however, made haste to reply, having 
picked up the pieces of porcelain carefully, and put 
them one side. “ It was a mere accident, Citizen Ver- 
dier, of Citizen Martial’s. He knocked off the plate 
with his coat-cuff ; I saw him, and indeed I cannot find 
fault with him, as I myself break a great deal of china 
in the course of a year, do not I, Babet?” 


1 86 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ You do indeed, my friend,” was the answer. — “ But 
there are some breakages which cost the breaker dear,” 
interposed Publicola, who seemed every moment to 
grow more and more suspicious of Puyjoli. 

“Cost me dear !” returned the prompter quickly. 
“ This one will cost me the price of a new plate, prob- 
ably.” Then, drawing up his chair closer to the table, 
he went on gaily : “ My friends, the theatre will open 
in an hour. I would advise you to make haste with 
your dinner.” 

“ And your appetite, Citizen La Bussière ? ” inquired 
Babet in her turn. 

“ Still good, in spite of the effort made just now to 
spoil it,” returned the other, glancing askance at the 
Viscount. 

“ Efforts to spoil it ! ” returned Nicholas, laughing. 
“ You must have a poor appetite indeed, if the break- 
ing of a plate will spoil it. Come, think no more of it, 
and if you like, my friend Médard — Maximilian Mé- 
dard,” — with a stress on the first name, “and I will 
give you a duet from Orpheus.” 

At this word music, La Bussière, enchanted, drop- 
ping the morsel of beef from his fork, exclaimed : 

“ Bravo ! Music ! I adore music. If I had not, un- 
fortunately, turned my attention to politics, I think I 
might have become a singer like Lays himself. Lis- 
ten ! ” Then, raising his glass above his curly head, 
and gazing ecstatically up at the ceiling, he began 
singing in clear, sonorous tones — 

“ Do you know what we have done ? 

What we have done ? 

What we have done ? 

But just the other day. 


The Dinner at Citizen Pluche’s. 


187 


We’ve made the nobles run, 

We’ve made the traitors run, 

And oh, but it was fun — 

So fast they sped away ! 

We’ve made them pack, 

They won’t come back, 

With baron, marquis, count, and countess, too, 
Hurrah 1 We’ll have no more to do, 

For this is what we’ve done. 

We’ve made them run, 

We've made them pack, 

They won’t come back — 

And this is what we’ve done. 

Hurray — Hurray — Hurray ! ” 

Verdier listened frowning. “ I prefer the Declara- 
tion of Rights and Hymns to Freedom to such light 
ditties as these,” he said, solemnly. 

Gaston de Puy job’s face was scarlet under his peri- 
wig. He bit his lips till the blood came. 

But La Bussière was now quite unconscious of his 
surroundings. Waving his glass above his head, he 
burst out again : 

“ We’ll have the tyrants back again 
When? 

When stars fall from the skies like rain. 

Then ! ” 

Here, however, Citizen Médard interrupted him by 
observing in his calm, simple way, that these songs, 
patriotic as their sentiments undoubtedly were, were 
musically of no value ; on the contrary, they were 
displeasing to the ear of a musician, especially to a 
musician accustomed to the sublime melodies of Gliick. 

“Of whom?” 

« Of Gliick.” 

“ Gliick — that is a German name,” 


1 88 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ It is tlie name of a divine, an immortal genius,” 
returned the other, hotly. Then, puckering up his old, 
withered lips as though he were sucking a sugar-plum, 
in a high falsetto voice, he sang : 

“ Here, within this place so blest 
The weary soul may rest, 

In this quiet, sheltered spot, 

Care and sorrow enter not.” 

Publicola had ceased to listen to what was going on 
around him. La Bussière was staring in amazement at 
Médard, and Clotilde, seeing the attention distracted of 
the two persons inimical to her husband, endeavoured, 
but in vain, to catch her husband’s eye. André persist- 
ently ignored all her attempts to attract his notice. 

Suddenly a violent knocking at the door disturbed 
the company. Upon the threshold of the door, which 
Nicholas had opened, stood a red-capped- man, a mem- 
ber of the Section, at sight of whom Verdier arose 
promptly. 

“ Citizen Verdier.” 

“ At your service, Citizen Aristides.” 

“ You are summoned to the Section — you and Citizen 
La Bussière. The sitting is ‘ en permanence .* I have 
been sent to fetch you, Citizen President. At your lodg- 
ings, where I went first, they sent me here. 

“ Bah,” returned La Bussière, laughing, “ what was the 
Vice-President doing then ? I thought vice-presidents 
were instituted for the sole and only purpose that the 
presidents might have the opportunity to dine in peace.” 

Publicola frowned, glancing warningly at his col- 
league. The other was quick enough to comprehend. 
He rose, saying : 

w I was only jesting. Shall I go with you ? ” 


The Dinner at Citizen Pluche’s. 189 

“ If you please.” 

“ At least stay and finish your dinner, Citizens,” said 
Babet, hospitably. 

“ The dinner ” already began La Bussière, irreso- 

lutely. 

“ The Section awaits you, Citizen,” repeated Citizen 
Aristides, impressively. 

“I am coming,” answered Verdier. 

“ Capua shall not make me forget Carthage,” re- 
turned La Bussière, preparing to take his departure. 
He swallowed a parting glass of wine, and then, stoop- 
ing down, he whispered in his host’s ear, glancing at 
the same time, in the direction of Puyjoli and Thorel : 

“Your two guests; you understand me, Pluche, 
when I tell you that they are both miserable actors, and 
deserve to be hissed off the stage for not rendering their 
rôles better.” 

He laughed, but his laugh caused Nicholas much 
uneasiness. Had La Bussière his suspicions that his 
guests were not what they appeared ? If so, he would 
undoubtedly confide those suspicions of his to his chief. 

“ I do not understand you,” stammered the prompter. 

“ No ? I did not think you were so obtuse.” He 
hastened after Verdier, who had already left the house. 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 


190 


CHAPTER IL 

GIRONDIN AND ROYALIST. 

“ Thank God ! ” exclaimed Babet, with a sigh of 
relief, when the door had closed upon the two Jacobins. 

“ At last ! ” her husband echoed her. 

“ Now,” thought André, with a look towards Puyjoli, 
“ I shall find out the name of that man there.” 

They continued their dinner, however, with renewed 
appetite. 

“ Duty before pleasure,” said Pluche, quoting Verdier, 
with a smile. “ I am thankful, however, that I was 
not the one who was called away from Babet’s dinner 
by the Section, but ” 

“ Every Jack to his trade,” returned Puyjoli, laughing. 

André, very much nettled, answered him hotly, for- 
getting in his haste the southern accent. 

“ Your tone, in speaking of these patriots who govern 
the councils of the Nation might, it seems to me, be a 
little more respectful.” 

“I am sorry my tone is not to your taste,” returned 
Puyjoli, scornfully, “ but I really cannot change it to 
please you, Citizen.” 

“ Have you no respect for the men who have given 
liberty to France ? ” 

“ Liberty ! Ah, Liberty — listen ! It is Liberty who 
cries aloud in the streets.” And Puyjoli paused to 
allow the voice of the crier, crying the list of “ sus- 


Girondin and Royalist. 19 1 

pects ” and denounced in the street outside, to be more 
distinctly heard. 

“ So be it,” returned the Viscount. 

“ Speak of your business affairs. Talk of your oils, 
your horses.” 

“ I am willing to wager that Citizen Martial’s horses 
cause him very little trouble,” exclaimed André. 

“ My horses — you are right. They have galloped 
away to the four winds of heaven. Not even one is 
left me to gallop away with out of France, if I should 
desire to do so.” 

“I quite believe you. Moreover, if I do not much 
mistake, you would rejoice to see the Duke of Bruns- 
wick’s cavalry encamp on the Place de la Revolution ; 
you could then recruit }^our stud from his, probably.” 

“ So ! ” exclaimed Pu} r joli, “you will make haste to 
denounce me to your patriotic friends as ” 

“ Denounce ! Denounce } t ou ! ” exclaimed Thorel in 
a fury, “ what the devil do you mean by that word, sir ? ” 

“ Sir,” returned Puyjoli, “ your Republic is the guil- 
lotine.” 

“ The Republic, it is Liberty — it is Law and Right.” 

“ Thank you, you may keep your liberty. I will 
none of it. It is license. It is anarchy rather.” 

“ Citizen,” returned Thorel, rising angrily from his 
chair and approaching Puyjoli, menacingly. 

“ Citizen ! ” returned the other, scornfully, not mov- 
ing from his chair. 

“ They will have a crowd around the house directly,” 
sighed Babet to herself. 

“ Have you lost your senses? ” whispered Nicholas, 
leaning over Puyjoli’s chair. 

u No, Pluche, but can I help it if your visitor from 


IQ 2 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

the Provinces is so hasty ? His oil, his oil ; he has 
thrown it all into the fire ! ” 

“ If you were not a guest here I would ” contin- 

ued Thorel excitedly, disregarding the frightened looks 
and gestures of his wife. 

“ At your service, Citizen. We can leave the house 
if you insist on it,” and Puyjoli, resolute but smiling, 
looked up scornfully from the chair where he was seated, 
at his adversary. 

They would, it seemed, probably have left the house 
directly, had not the voice of the public crier, just then 
passing by, resounded through the room — 

“ Here you are — a full and complete list of all sus- 
pected and accused persons. Their names, addresses 
and professions, compiled by the Committee of Public 
Safety. Only two sous ! ” 

It was as if the heavy sound of a falling axe made it- 
self suddenly audible in the very room they were in. 

“ Suspected — denounced,” said Thorel in a hoarse 
whisper. 

“ It is the list he is calling,” murmured the Viscount, 
half under his breath. 

“ Misery loves company,” whispered Nicholas to his 
wife. “Fetch the coffee, Babet, we shall have no more 
trouble with them ; besides, it is time I was off to the 
theatre. I have to prompt in a new play to-night.” 

“ Ah, the playhouse ! ” exclaimed Puyjoli, laughing. 
“ If you should see the fair Clerval, tell her from me 
that I throw at her feet ” 

“ What?” 

“ All my emoluments as groom of the stud.” 

“ Poor Sophie ! She won’t be much the richer for 
them, I am afraid.” 


Girondin and Royalist. 193 

Coffee drunk, Nicholas began to get ready to go to 
the theatre. Médard was to accompany him. Before 
going, however, he thought it necessary to caution the 
Viscount once more in private. 

44 One word. Do try and play your part better. Any 
one not blind and deaf, would know you for an émigré 
at the first glance.” 

44 Ah, all the world cannot have the talent of Citizen 
Dugazon, you know, Pluche.” 

44 Patience,” implored the prompter of André, in his 
turn. 

44 Certainly it is needed.” 

41 For your sake— for mine.” 

44 It is only out of consideration for you, that I have 
refrained from throwing the royalist out of the window 
a half hour ago ! ” 

“I fear,” Pluche could not resist saying, “you would 
not have found it as easy a task as you imagine. But 
have the kindness to remember that, though you are 
my friend, he is one also. 

Clotilde, profiting by the moment’s diversion, ap- 
proached Puyjoli, exclaiming, 

44 1 entreat you, Gaston, he silent. You will bring 
ruin down on the heads of us all. Do go away — leave 
the room,” she added, impatiently. 

“I — I make way for this Jacobin ! No, thank you, I 
am very comfortable where I am. Why should I go 
away ? ” 

“ I implore you, Gaston, leave us here a moment to- 
gether. I wish to speak to him.” 

“ To him ? ” 

“ To him.” 

44 Why?” 

*3 


194 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ I wish to speak to him ; I told you so before.” 

“ Are you going to humble yourself before this 
man ? ” 

“ What is that to you ? Go, Gaston. Leave us.” 

Puyjoli hesitated, but at an appealing glance from 
Clotilde, he rose slowly from his chair. 

“ Very well, for your sake, Clotilde, for your sake 
alone ! ” Then, in a sarcastic tone he added, “ After 
all, I confess I prefer my damp cellar and solitude to 
the company in this room.” 

Left alone with her husband (Babet had also quitted 
the room at the moment Puyjoli descended the stairs 
leading to the cellar) Clotilde ran eagerly towards 
him, with outstretched arms, exclaiming, 

“André — my André — how happy I am ” She 

stopped suddenly, as he made no reply. 

“ You repulse me. Why ? ” 

“ Have not I good reason to repulse you ? ” 

“You wish to avoid me — you cannot endure the 
sight of me. Why ? ” 

“ Why ! Infamous woman, do you dare to ask me 
why ?” 

Clotilde gazed at him, her lips white and quivering. 

“ I do — not — understand you,” she stammered, “ I — 
do — not understand your words — your looks — your 
treatment of me.” 

“You do not understand me ? Very well, I will try 
and explain myself. Look me in the face ; ” and he 
caught her by the wrist as he spoke, “ my heart was 
filled to overflowing with love for you and my country. 
By both objects of my affection, I have been deceived — 
betrayed.” 

“ Betrayed by me — deceived ? I do not understand,” 


Girondin and Royalist. 195 

interrupted Clotilde. The unhappy woman could hardly 
believe her ears. Of what fault could her husband 
accuse her? She who lived only for him. 

“ André, my husband, are you mad ? What is it of 
which 3^011 accuse me? Speak, and let me know how I 
have offended you.” 

“ Am I mad ? ” he repeated bitterly. “ When I recall 
the scene of that fatal night I am tempted to wish I 
were. But no, alas, that consolation is denied me. I 
have endeavoured to doubt the evidence of my own 
senses rather than accuse you.” 

“ Accuse me ? Now I insist on your telling me every- 
thing.” 

“ On the evening of the day when the decree of our 
arrest was promulgated in the Convention, though I 
knew I was endangering life and liberty by returning 
home, I could not resist doing so. I remembered that 
I had left you alone and in tears that morning, and I 
determined to risk my life for one word — one embrace. 
That night when I had returned, and was about to enter 
the house by way of the garden, you ran quickly by me. 
I followed you, and saw you knock at the door of 
the pavilion. It was opened by a man. You entered, 
and I, your husband, a hunted fugitive, heard as I stood 
outside in the darkness, words that convinced me of 
your guilt, your treachery. I heard you call him by 
his name, I heard you use words of endearment toward 
him, conjure him by a past — a common past.” 

“ Have you anything more to say ? ” inquired Clotilde, 
coldly, when he paused, too much moved to go on. 

“More to say? Have not I said enough, and more 
than enough ” 

“ My poor André ! Have you really believed, and 


196 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

for so long a time, that your wife has been false to you, 
and that that man ” 

“ Was your lover,” he interrupted her furiously. 
“ There can be no doubt of it.” 

“ Ah, by our life together, André, by that and our 
love, I assure you he was not. I love, you — I have al- 
ways loved you. Could I look you in the face as I do 
now, if 1 had not — if I had not always been faithful 
to you ? André, kill me if you will, but do not doubt 
me.” 

“Who was that man, then?” 

“ That man ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ A fugitive.” 

“ He, a fugitive ? ” 

“ A man suspected, denounced, in danger of losing 
his life as you yourself were.” 

“ His name ? ” 

“ I am not at liberty to tell you his name.” 

“ I heard you call him ‘ Gaston.’ Tell me his name.” 

“ Have not I told you that I have promised not to 
reveal his name, even to you ? ” 

“I do not believe you. Why should a man come to 
you for refuge, and yet forbid you to tell me his name?” 

“ He came to me for refuge, for a shelter, which I 
could not give him. He went away again almost im- 
mediately. As I could not give him the shelter he 
sought, the least I could do was to keep his name a se- 
cret, as he implored me to do.” 

“ That man was no fugitive. How can you expect 
me to believe you when you acknowledge you have a 
secret from me.” 

“A secret from you?” 


Girondin and Royalist. 197 

“ Who is this man with whom you have such an in- 
timate acquaintance that he comes to you to hide him 
when his head is in danger? ” 

“ He was the friend, the playmate of my childhood.” 

“ Yet you have never mentioned his name to me.” 

“ Did not I ? Ah, André, it was because since our 
marriage I have only thought of you. My childhood, 
my early girlhood, I had quite forgotten them. Now, 
however, I will tell you the name of the man with 
whom I spoke that night. He would now be the first 
to release me from my promise. It was Gaston de 
Puyjoli. I was a protégée of his grandmother’s. We 
grew up in the same house together. He is younger 
than I, but we were playmates. My father lost his life 
in saving Gaston’s brother’s, and after that I was brought 
up in the family ; you knew that, André. You knew 
that I was the ward of Madame de Trémolat, who left 
me my dowry in her will. My only fault was that I 
did not tell you that I had met Puyjoli here in Paris 
one day. He asked me not to do so. He is a Royalist. 
You were a member of the Convention and he was not 
pleased to learn that I had married a Girondin. He 
would not have come to us if ” 

“ I do not believe you,” he interrupted her gloomily. 
I never can.” 

Clotilde gazed mutely, despairingly, at her husband for 
a moment, then exclaiming, 

“You do not believe me ? Very well, I will hesitate 
no longer. If I deliver up this rival, this man of whom 
you are jealous, whom you hate, into your hands, you 
will no longer refuse to believe me, will you ? Love 
me again, perhaps ? ” 

“ What is it you are saying ? ” stammered André, 


198 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

aghast. He was afraid his wife might have gone mad 
suddenly. 

“ I say I am going to bring you face to face with this 
man, your rival as you call him.” 

“ He is here ? ” 

“ He is here.” 

Opening the door through which Gaston had gone, 
she called aloud : 

“ Monsieur le Vicomte î ” 

44 What are you doing ? ” exclaimed Thorel, aston- 
ished. 

“ I am going, as I promised, to bring you face to face 
with the man with whom I spoke in the pavilion on the 
last night of your sitting in the Convention.” 

When Puyjoli appeared in answer to her call, she 
addressed him ; 

“ Monsieur le Vicomte, this is my husband, my dearly 
loved and honoured husband. On the night of the 2nd 
of June last he overheard some of our conversation in 
the pavilion in the garden. One word he heard has 
caused him much pain. He heard 4 a common past,’ al- 
luded to. Will you assure him that this past referred 
only to our childish days, spent together in an old hôtel in 
Périgord? I do not ask you to defend me in any way 
to my husband. I simply ask you to corroborate me.” 

Gaston de Puyjoli bowed gravely. 

44 The truth of what your wife has told needs no 
corroboration from me. I had gone to your house, 
seeking my brother, Gerard de Monpazier, — your 
friend, was not he ? — whom I had seen a few hours be- 
fore, and who told me he should go to your house that 
night for shelter. I did not find my brother there, as I 
expected, and, as your wife was afraid it was not safe 


Girondin and Royalist. 199 

for me to wait in the house to see Gérard, she gave me 
the key of the pavilion, while she kept watch in the 
garden for Monpazier. He did not come. Instead 
came a guard of soldiers, seeking for you, and your 
wife flew to warn me to leave the pavilion by the secret 
passage as they would, without doubt, search there for 
you. The words you heard spoken by her were those 
of sisterly admonition. She feared I was too foolhardy, 
too reckless ” 

Here, however, André interrupted him. Holding out 
his arms, he exclaimed brokenly, 

“ My wife — my noble, outraged wife, can you ever 
forgive me ? ” 

With a cry of joy, of rapture, Clotilde flung herself 
on his breast. He held her pressed to his heart in 
silence for some moments, then, gently releasing her, 
he stepped up to Gaston, holding out his hand. 

“ Forgive me. We are both fugitives, both menaced 
by the same danger. I have neither the power nor the 
will to injure you. I saw your brother on that night 
you came to seek him. We supped together, and he is 
safe, I am sure of it. As you know, I could not offer 
him the shelter of my roof, but I sent him to a place 
where I should have gone myself, had not I met 
Gérard.” 

“You sent my brother to the house of one of your 
friends ? ” 

“ I did.” 

“ Still,” replied Gaston, gloomily, “ it was almost 
certain death for my brother to walk the streets of Paris 
alone on the thirty-first of May.” 

“ I have no doubt, however, he reached the house I 
sent him to in safety.” 


200 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ Did this friend of yours know Gérard?” 

“No.” 

“Puyjoli appeared to meditate deeply over these 
words of André ’s, and his anxiety about his brother was 
enlivened by a ray of hope. André was safe — why not 
Gérard ? 

“ You do not think, then, that Gérard could have been 
arrested in the streets of Paris on the night of the 31st 
of May?” 

“I hardly think so. He was well disguised.” 

Puyjoli marched restlessly up and down the room. 

“ This man to whom you sent my brother — was he 
one of your colleagues in the Convention ? ” 

“ No, but a man quite devoted to me.” 

“ I have no right to ask you his name, yet I confess I 
should like to know into whose hands it was, you con- 
fided Gérard’s life.” 

“ To the hands of a merchant, a draper. After all, 
why should not I tell you his name? your brother’s 
secret is your secret. If, by any chance, you should 
ever meet Citizen Leroux, you may thank him for sav- 
ing your brother’s life.” 

The reader may perhaps remember here, that Ger- 
maine had told Clotilde that Monpazier had been to 
her father’s, but the wife of the Girondin, anxious and 
alarmed for her husband’s safety, had entirely forgot- 
ten the circumstance. 

“ Vincent Leroux,” returned the other, joyfully ; “ I 
know him. The draper in the Rue du Mail. I saved 
his daughter’s life one day.” 

“ Oh,” exclaimed Clotilde, laughingly, “ there is sure 
to be a woman in the case if you have anything to do 
with it.” Then, turning to her husband : “ He was called 


Girondin and Royalist. 201 

4 the beautiful Puyjoli ’ in his native province, greatly 
to his disgust too, as it happened.” 

Gaston answered, comforted, “ So the gruff old draper, 
Vincent Leroux, who warned me away from his shop 
and his lovely daughter, it is he, is it, who opened his 
house to my brother? Well, I thank him with all my 
soul for it. And, after all, I bore him no ill-will though 
he did shut his door unceremoniously in my face. His 
daughter — what a lovely girl she is ! and the best, the 
sweetest creature, present company excepted,” (bow- 
ing to Clotilde), “ in the world.” 

“Your brother certainly found a refuge, a sure and 
safe one at Leroux’s, I know,” returned Thorel, con- 
fidently. 


202 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 


CHAPTER III. 

GERMAINE. 

B AB ET, on returning to the dining-room, was not a 
little surprised and delighted to find her two guests, 
who, when she had left them, seemed ready to fly at 
each other’s throats, the best friends imaginable. 
Clotilde, too, was smiling, and seemed quite happy. 

“ Ah,” Babet whispered to her, “ they appear to be 
the best friends in the world.” 

“ As you see.” 

“ And how did this change come about?” 

“ Through me ? ” 

Babet was only too happy to behold peace and har- 
mony within her walls again. How pleased Nicholas 
would be, was her first thought. But, alas! this 
peace — gentle peace — which brooded now over all, was 
soon to be disturbed and put to flight. Just then some 
one knocked at the door. 

This time it was neither Verdier nor his friend La 
Bussière. It was a woman — a tall, young woman, 
dressed in black, with a beautiful, sad face, sur- 
mounted by heavy braids of rich, chestnut-coloured 
hair. 

“ Whom do you wish to see here, Citizeness ? ” in- 
quired Babet, nervously, of the new-comer. She was 
quite a stranger to her, and Babet, poor woman, had 
had enough of strangers.” 


Germaine. 


203 

“ The girl — she was only a girl— answered promptly, 
“ The Viscount Puyjoli.” 

“ What,” stammered Babet ; “ I — I ” 

“ Monsieur de Puyjoli — he is here, I know.” 

Again terror — wild, unreasoning, blind terror — filled 
the worthy housewife’s breast. Monsieur de Puyjoli ! 
And she knew he was here ! Then probably all the 
street knew it ! 

“ Citizeness, I tell you ” 

“ Please let Monsieur de Puyjoli know that I wish to 
speak to him,” returned the stranger coldly ; “ and at 
once. Tell him I have brought him a message from 
the daughter of the ci-devant Marquis de Louverchal.” 

“ Louverchal — Puyjoli ! What names are these ? ” 
repeated Babet, affecting surprise. But, alas ! she was 
a bad actress. Nicholas would have felt ashamed of 
her, had he heard her. “We have, it is true, two 
strangers from the Provinces visiting us — Citizen Plan- 
tade ( here she raised her voice so as to be heard in the 
adjoining room), and Citizen Larcenac. Citizeness 
Barbier, a neighbour, has also been in to have a few 
words with me, but Viscount so-and-so, and Marquis 
this-and-that, merciful Heaven ! for what do you take 
us, Citizeness?” 

“ My name is Germaine Leroux,” returned the other 
quietly; “you or your friends have nothing to fear 
from me, I assure you.” 

She had raised her voice unconsciously in the ardour 
of her entreaty. A door behind Babet was now opened 
suddenly, and Puyjoli appeared at it. 

“ Ah, Citizeness Germaine,” he exclaimed, greeting 
her cordially ; then, turning to Babet, he said : “ It is 
a friend, have no fear.” 


204 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

Greatly to his surprise, the girl recoiled from his out- 
stretched hand, and her pale face turned ghastly white 
at sight of him. 

“You do not fear me, Germaine ?” he asked gently. 

“ No, it was to see you that I came.” 

Babet, comprehending that she had come on an 
errand of some importance to Puyjoli, now invited her 
to enter the dining-room, where Clotilde and her hus- 
band were. Germaine, however, refused. 

“I have come,” she said, speaking in low, trembling 
tones, “to bring M. de Puyjoli news of a friend of his.” 

Puyjoli’s face brightened. She had come to bring 
him tidings of his brother. Babet, divining that the 
girl wished to speak alone with Puyjoli, ushered the 
two into the little room which served Pluche as a 
library. When they were alone together, Puyjoli, 
bending over the chair into which Germaine had 
dropped, her weak, trembling limbs refusing to support 
her longer, took both her hands in his. 

“ I have come,” she began eagerly, as though dread- 
ing his first addressing her — “ I have come from Made- 
moiselle de Louverchal.” 

“ From Bertha? ” he returned, very much astonished. 
“ What has happened ? Is she in danger ? ” 

“ She ? No, not at this moment, certainly, but her 
father ” 

“ The Marquis ” 

“ Has been arrested and thrown into prison.” 

“ He arrested ? The most inoffensive and harmless 
of mortals ! ” 

“ He was denounced to the Committee of Public 
Safety yesterday, arrested this morning, and carried off 
to the prison of Saint Lazare.” 


Germaine. 


205 


“ Good Heavens ! ” 

“ Monsieur de Louverchal was making preparations 
to flee from Paris with his daughter. His purpose was 
suspected. His porter, when questioned, gave confused 
and unsatisfactory answers ” 

“ That drivelling idiot, Bonnemain ” 

“ Mademoiselle was not, strange to say, arrested at 
the same time with her father. She is still at the 
hôtel in the Rue Mirabeau, but in a state of terror and 
despair at the fate probably awaiting her father, alone 
and friendless. She thought of me, and came to me to 
help her ” 

“ And you have come to me. Thanks, a thousand 
thanks to you for doing so. She desired you to sum- 
mon me to her?” 

“ No, she asked me only to let you know that she was 
alone and in danger.” 

“ Well, in an hour I shall be with her. It is hardly 
necessary for me, however, to present myself in this 
costume at the Hôtel Louverchal. Allow me to absent 
myself for a few minutes to change this ridiculous garb 
for that of an ordinary citizen, and I will be at your — 
at her service.” He added smilingly, “ I will only keep 
you waiting five minutes, and in the mean time, the 
Thorels will bear you company. 

“ Oh,” returned Germaine, eagerly, “now that my 
errand is done, I need not wait. I do not care about 
meeting the Thorels.” 

“ Go away ? Oh, you must not think of doing that. 
I want to speak to you of my brother, you know. Is 
he well? Is he still at your house? ” 

“Your brother!” — her ashy-white lips trembled so 
they could hardly form the words. 


2oô Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ Yes, yes, my brother — or did not he tell you he was 
my brother ? ” 

“ You have a brother ” 

“ Of course, Gérard de Monpazier, who came to your 
house on the night of the 2d of June, is my brother.” 

She looked ready to faint, and Puyjoli, out of com- 
passion for her, made an effort to subdue his eagerness. 

“ On the night of the 2d of June a man came to 
your house seeking shelter,” he forced himself to speak 
very slowly and calmly. Her blue lips formed with 
difficulty the one word : 

“ Shelter.” 

“ Sent to your house by André Thorel.” 

Kaising her great, sad eyes with a supreme effort to 
Puyjoli’s face, she said slowly : 

“No man — came — to our house ” 

“ He did not come to your house ? Oh, but he must 
have come. Perhaps, though, you did not see him. It 
was your father ” 

“ My father,” she panted, “saw nobody! ” 

Puyjoli’s handsome face had grown white and drawn 
with anxiety. “ But Thorel assured me he sent my 
brother to your father’s house. I must go and tell 
Thorel what you have just told me, that no one came to 
your house on the night of the 2d of June. Come — 
let us go together into the next room. I want him to 
hear from your own lips that my brother never reached 
your house. 

Germaine hesitated. She felt unequal to the ordeal 
of facing Thorel and answering his interrogations. She 
was fearful she might betray her father were she forced 
to answer Thorel’s clear and searching cross-examina- 
tion. She rose hastily, her slight figure swaying 


Germaine. 


207 

unsteadily, her great dark eyes glowing in a face white 
and cold as marble. 

“ I cannot stop,” she gasped. “I will come again. 
Tell M. Thorel what I have told you, of course, but do 
not forget, meanwhile, that Mademoiselle de Louver- 
chal is expecting you.” 

“ I will be off directly,” returned Puyjoli, feverishly, 
a prey to conflicting emotious. Anxiety about his 
missing brother, and the desire to fly to Mademoiselle 
de Louverchal’s assistance. “ But I must first have a 
word with Thorel.” 

Germaine, deaf to his entreaties to remain, left the 
house quickly. She walked forward like an automaton, 
seeing nothing, hearing nothing of what was going on 
around her. One thought filled her soul to the extinc- 
tion of all others. She had lied, lied cruelly to the 
man she loved, to shield her father. Never, she told 
herself, had a lie so black, so cruel, been spoken before, 
since the beginning of the world. Never would another 
so base be uttered until the end of it. But if she had 
confessed to Gerard’s presence in the house, how could 
she keep from confessing her knowledge of the cruel 
scene which she had, though only dimly, witnessed on 
that dreadful night? Her blood froze now at the 
thought of it. The knowledge of her father’s crime 
had blighted her youth, broken her heart. “If I could 
die,” she moaned, “ die and be rid of it all.” 

Walking as a somnambulist might, the unhappy girl 
reached the door of the shop in the Rue du Mail. 
When she entered she became aware that her father 
had a visitor — an old man, with whom he seemed in 
earnest conversation. As she came in, both turned 
toward her, and her father exclaimed, with evident pride : 


2o8 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ There she is herself — my daughter, of whom we 
have been speaking.” 

He started, however, at the sight of her pale face and 
feeble, tottering gait. 

“ Are you sick, Germaine ? ” he inquired, anxiously. 
Answering in the affirmative, she passed them quickly, 
ascended the stairs and hurried to her own chamber. 

She had been there but a few moments when a knock 
came at the door and her father entered. He seemed 
very much annoyed, He inquired sternly : 

“ Why did you run away just now ? You are not sick ? ” 

“ No,” she murmured. 

“ You do not know,” he continued in a milder tone, 
“ what was the object of Citizen Bernard’s visit to me 
just now. You have no idea?” lie questioned eagerly. 

“ Why did he come ? ” she returned indifferently. 

“We were talking, it was odd, was not it, of you, 
just as you came in.” 

“ Of me?” 

“ After all, there is nothing very astonishing about 
that. Your name is always on my lips, my dear Ger- 
maine, my happiness, my joy, my daughter. But this 
time it was not I who was speaking of you. It was he. 
You have no idea what he came for? Do not you want 
to know ? ” he persisted, as she made no answer. 

“ What was it ? ” she inquired, listlessly. 

“Well, he has a son, Citizen Bernard, a fine, hand- 
some fellow, rich too, and he has seen you.” 

“ And who desires to marry me, perhaps,” she in- 
quired brusquely, looking with her great sad eyes full 
in her father’s face. 

“ Oh,” he stammered, frightened, he hardly knew 
why, at her look. “ Citizen Bernard came to inquire if 


Germaine. 


209 

I would consent to your marriage — if you — in short, if 
after seeing his son, you should like him, and he were 
to ask for your hand ” 

“ My hand,” she wailed. “ I marry ! You know 
very well that I can never marry.” 

“Why not?” replied Leroux, affecting to misunder- 
stand. 

“ Father, do not you know why ? Do not you know 
the secret which will keep me from marrying ? ” 

Vincent Leroux had grown pale as death. He 
muttered the word “ secret ” under his breath, then, 
laughing hoarsely, he exclaimed : 

“ You are in love with somebody else — secretly in 
love.” All the latent violence of his nature awoke 
in him at the thought. He glared ferociously at the 
girl before him, and continued : 

“ Mille tonnerres — idiot that I was ! I had forgotten ; 
but I know ” 

“ What do you know ? ” asked his daughter. He 
laughed angrily. 

“ It is the ci-devant you are in love with. Parbleau ! 
The ci-devant . The popinjay Viscount, who used to 
come dangling about you. The dandy with the pink- 
and- white complexion and yellow curls, like a girl’s.” 

“ M. de Puyjoli.” 

“ Ah, see then, how quickly his name comes to your 
lips. And it is he, the fop, the aristocrat, who has 
stolen the love of my child.” 

“If I loved him, it was without his knowledge and 
from no fault of his. But I do not love him. I have 
no right to love him or any one, but him least of all,” 
she replied, a sudden expression of horror distorting 
her features. 

14 


210 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

The draper repeated blankly, “ Him less than any 
one else — why ? ” 

“Why!” she exclaimed, with a piercing cry, u You 
ask me why ! Yon wish to know why ! ” 

“ Yes, I wish it.” 

“Well, I will tell you. I have no right to love him, 
because the Viscount Puyjoli is the brother of Gérard 
de Monpazier,” 

“ Monpazier,” whispered her father, with lips white 
and trembling. He recoiled as though the floor before 
his feet had suddenly opened. He gazed anxiously at 
his daughter. Why had she spoken of Gérard de Mon- 
pazier. Could it be that she divined, — he continued 
almost involuntarily his questioning : 

“Ah,” with a supreme effort at self-control, “so Puy- 
joli is the brother of that man.” 

“ Yes, his brother, his brother ” 

“ Well,” he continued hardly, still gazing at her. 

A strange metamorphosis had come over her. This 
girl, usually so gentle, calm, languid even, stood facing 
him, stern, resolute as an avenging angel. Her hair 
had come undone, and hung in thick dark masses on 
each side of her set, rigid countenance, out of which 
her eyes stared stonily past him, as though looking at 
some vision of horror. 

“Do you know whom I have just seen?” she in- 
quired, in a voice so cold and monotonous that he shiv- 
ered as it fell on his ears. 

« Whom ? ” 

“ M. de Puyjoli. And do you know what were the 
first words he spoke to me ? an inquiry for his brother. 
He knew that he had been here, sent here by André 
Thorel.” 


Germaine. 


2 1 1 


Leroux leaned heavily against the chimney-piece. 
For a moment it seemed to him as if he must fall, but 
he rallied immediately. Now he understood that Ger- 
maine knew, and had perhaps witnessed, his murder of 
Monpazier. He stood there, stiff, erect, as if turned to 
stone. He essayed to speak, but his lips were incapa- 
ble of forming an intelligible word. 

“ But you cannot guess what I said,” continued the 
unhappy girl, wringing her hands as she spoke : “ When 
M. de Puyjoli asked for his brother, I said we knew noth- 
ing of him, that he had never been to our house at all.” 

“ Germaine ! Germaine ! ” exclaimed her father, fall- 
ing at her feet and grovelling before her. 

She made no effort to raise him, only went on in her 
low, even, monotonous tones : “ I did my duty as a 
daughter, did not I ? If anything had happened to M. 
de Monpazier that night — as perhaps there did — and I 
should have acknowledged that he had been here, M. de 
Puyjoli might have come here to cross-examine, to 
question you.” She burst out laughing — a laugh more 
dreadful to listen to than a scream of agony. 

Lifting his hands in supplication, her father, still 
kneeling there before her, cried hoarsely : 

“ Germaine, forgive me — pity me. If you did but 
know how it happened. I never meant to kill him. 
Upon my soul I did not. I went to ask him to help me. 
He drew a pistol on me, and he was dead before I knew 
it. I swear it ! I was mad — mad ! I did not know 
what I was doing. Ah, wretch though I am, will 
not you pity — forgive me ? His money — I would have 
paid for it with every drop of blood in my veins, that 
you might have it — I did not want it for myself, but 
that you, my child, should not suffer want.” 


212 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

She shuddered back from him, veiling her face ; 
“ How can you say it was for me — for me you ” 

“ Germaine, Germaine, listen ! He was an aristo- 
crat, a traitor ; he was going to fight against France, 
the Republic. He deserved his fate.” 

“ Did he ? ” she answered coldly. “ Perhaps, but he 
was your guest,” here she stopped suddenly, and looked 
round her fearfully. A pause ensued. Slowly the man 
kneeling at her feet raised his bent head, and with 
despairing eyes, looked up at her. Again he mur- 
mured with livid lips a prayer for mercy, for forgiveness. 

“ Rise,” she said, “ I will not betray you. Did not I 
keep your secret for you just now? Your secret ! it is 
mine and I will guard it. It is,” she added with her 
dreadful laugh, “ a family secret.” 

Leroux sprang quickly to his feet again. “ What is 
it that you wish me to do ? ” he asked roughly, “ I tell 
you I did not know what I was doing. I was mad — 
drunk, and the handle of that man’s pistol, the pistol 
with which he would have killed me, contained papers 
from Pitt and Coburg, to the rebels in La Vendée. You 
must understand now, Germaine, that this man was a 
traitor — a spy of the English — an aristocrat — one of the 
brood which has plunged all France in misery. 

“ He was your guest,” she answered, shuddering. 

“ My guest ! Is my house to be made a den for 
traitors ? ” 

“ But you kept his gold,” she retorted coldly, and 
Leroux fell back as though he had been struck in the 
face. 

The gold. Yes, he had kept his gold. It was this 
gold with which he had paid off his creditors — this 
gold which had saved him from bankruptcy. 


Germaine. 


213 

Germaine could endure the scene no longer. Falling 
on her knees by the side of the bed, she buried her face 
in the bedclothes, murmuring : 

“ I can bear no more. For pity’s sake leave me — 
leave me alone for a while.” 

“Yes, yes, I will go,” he answered hastily; and with 
slow and heavy footsteps he turned and left the room. 


214 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 


CHAPTER IV. 

MADEMOISELLE DE LOLVERCHAL. 

Before setting out for the Rue de Mirabeau, Puyjoli 
determined to let André know that Monpazier had not 
been at the Leroux’s. 

Leroux, his daughter positively asserted, had had no 
visitor on the night of the 2d of June. 

André, who was alone in the room, Clotilde having 
gone into the kitchen to help Babet, on hearing it, 
seemed very much concerned. It seemed only too 
probable that some terrible fate had overtaken his 
friend. 

Puyjoli, young, courageous, light-hearted, could not 
himself realise all the dangers which environed a fugi- 
tive in Paris. Was not he himself a fugitive and in 
hiding, and as yet in no danger at all ? 

But Thorel, graver, older, more experienced, divined 
that some terrible misfortune must have overtaken his 
unhappy friend. He was aware, too, that Monpazier 
knew of no other place of refuge than the draper’s shop. 
What could have prevented his going there ? He had 
without doubt been arrested and carried off to prison as 
an émigré, or attacked and murdered in some lonely 
street or alley by a midnight assassin. 

Thorel was quite convinced that Monpazier was 
either in prison or dead. 

“ It is strange,” he repeated again and again, “ but 


Mademoiselle de Louverchal. 215 

what could have prevented Monpazier’s going to 
Leroux ? ” 

Puyjoli, on his part, regarded this anxiety of Thorel 
as odd and exaggerated. 

“ I shall never forgive myself,” André exclaimed, “ if, 
through my desertion of him, an untoward accident has 
befallen Gérard.” 

“ By his desertion of Monpazier,” Puyjoli thought, 
looking suspiciously at the other’s pale and anxious 
countenance. 

“ Alas, my poor Gerard J-r-my poor, unhappy Gérard,” 
again exclaimed the Girondin. 

“ Certainly he gives up hope very quickly,” mused 
the other ; “ he has already, it seems, begun to chant 
Gerard’s funeral psalm.” 

“ If Gerard is no longer living, I shall be the prey of 
never-ending remorse.” 

“ Truly,” interrupted Puyjoli, impatiently, “ you seem 
in a great hurry to chant the Dies irce over Gérard. 
Why should not he be as much alive as we are ? ” 

“ But you say he never reached Leroux’s.” 

“Well, there are other houses in Paris besides the 
draper’s, and Gérard was well disguised.” It was now 
Puyjoli’s part to reassure Thorel, but a few moments 
before so cheerful concerning Monpazier. 

Just here, however, their conference was broken off 
by a great noise of voices and the sound of muskets 
rattling in the garden outside the door. 

“ What can that be ? ” exclaimed Thorel. 

Clotilde came running in from the kitchen and flung 
her arms round her husband, wondering piteously if 
she had but just got him back, only to have him torn 
from her arms immediately. 


2i6 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“Well, they have run us down, it seems,” cried 
Puyjoli. 

Babet now burst into the room, white as a sheet. 

“Citizens, Citizeness, — Ah, merciful Heaven, we are 
lost! I have just seen from the window that the house 
is surrounded by soldiers.” 

“ Surrounded ? ” exclaimed Puyjoli. 

“ I hear the rattling of muskets,” added Thorel. 

“ Ah,” exclaimed Clotilde, “ at least we can die to- 
gether, André.” 

The door was now thrown wide open, and Publicola 
Verdier’s tall, gaunt form appeared within it. 

“ In the name of the Law,” he said sternly, “ let no 
one quit the apartment.” 

André and the Viscount threw at the same moment a 
glance at the swords and theatrical weapons ranged 
against the wall opposite. 

“ Shall we,” inquired Puyjoli, “ not endeavour to 
defend ourselves with these tin swords and spears ? ” 

“We can try it,” returned the other, grasping the 
nearest weapon. 

“ Useless,” returned Verdier, coldly, “ my people are 
outside. I have only to raise my voice and you will he 
shot down in a moment. We are ten to one.” 

He crossed over to where Clotilde leaned against a 
table, pale and trembling. 

“ You are Citizeness Thorel, the wife of the Girondin. 
I arrest you.” 

“From whom have you received this information?” 
demanded André. 

“ From whom ? The Citizeness Thorel has been de- 
nounced by the porter of the house in which she lodges.” 

“ The scoundrel ! ” exclaimed Thorel, 


Mademoiselle de Louverchal. 217 

“How he discovered it is of no consequence. La 
Bussière informed me of the denunciation at the Section. 
Men will be sent here presently from the Section to 
search for you, and also in the house opposite. I, with 
my friends, have got ahead of them. I have come here 
to arrest you, Citizeness, and take you away with me.” 

“ Arrest her ! Take her away ? What is the offence ? ” 

Verdier replied dryly, “I am not here to discuss 
that ; I am here to arrest her.” Then, tossing back 
his head, he continued, “ She has drawn down too much 
attention upon herself. She has been met with too 
often in the ante-chambers of patriots. She has wearied 
the deputies by her intercessions for her husband, a 
fugitive and contumacious ” 

“ Dear Clotilde,” whispered André looking at her re- 
morsefully. 

“ And as we have no traces of her hushand, we have 
determined to arrest the wife, who will, perhaps, be 
able to give us some tidings of his whereabouts.” 

“ Never ! ” exclaimed Clotilde, with a smile, “ Never, 
never ! ” 

“ And you have come to carry her off to prison ? ” 

“ It is the order.” 

“ It is death,” exclaimed Puyjoli. 

“ Hasten, hasten,” warned Verdier. 

André, disregarding his wife’s beseeching looks and 
gestures, advanced toward the Jacobin. 

“ One moment, citizen. If you arrest the Citizeness, 
you must arrest me with her. I am her husband, the 
contumacious deputy of whom you just now spoke. I 
am he, I, André Thorel, the Girondin.” The Jacobin’s 
hard face grew harder. He measured his opponent 
with scornful, unfriendly glances. 


2l8 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

Puyjoli, on his part, had hard work to keep from 
following Thorel’s example. It was only by a supreme 
effort that he refrained from saying : 

“ And vive Dieu, but you can arrest me with Citizen 
Thorel. I am the Viscount de Puyjoli.” 

The thought of the duty he owed towards Mademoi- 
selle de Louverchal restrained him, however. He must 
sustain her, protect her. As long as he lived he must 
do so.” 

Poor Babet stood there, the picture of despair. With 
clasped hands, she ejaculated the word “ mercy, mercy,” 
continually. Whether to soften Publicola’s heart or 
soften an unpropitious Fate, is uncertain. 

Verdier remained standing immovable on the thresh- 
old of the door, his grizzled head touching the lintel. 
He muttered between his clenched teeth again and again, 

“ A Girondin — you — and the other ” 

“ Citizen Martial Plantade,” returned André eagerly, 
seeing that Puyjoli was weary of masquerading. 

“ Possibly,” returned the Jacobin, “ but I doubt it. 
Suspected persons — all of you. And you too, Citizeness 
Babet, the Republic has good reasons to doubt your 
loyalty, yours and your husband’s. Where is your 
husband ? ” 

“ My poor Nicholas,” sighed Babet. 

“ Where is he ? ” 

“ At the theatre, at his post.” 

Verdier still continued to gaze menacingly and fixedly 
aKhe other occupants of the room. In his eyes, so dull 
usually, a strange, sullen fire burned. He seemed to 
want to speak, but the words died away stammeringly 
on his rigid lips. 

An icy silence reigned. A silence as in the presence 


Mademoiselle de Louverchal. 219 

of death. It was broken suddenly by Verdier clench- 
ing his bony fists ; and as though struggling with him- 
self, he exclaimed, 

u I have an idea — but there are too many of you — 
and you are not to be trusted, probably — ” He stopped 
abruptly, as though fearing to have said too much. 

“You may trust us,” André answered quickly, a 
slight feeling of hope awaking in his heart at the 
evident hesitation of the leader of the Section. 

“ I love my child,” he continued, speaking in low, 
hoarse tones, “ he is all I have left to love, and she,” 
he pointed towards Clotilde with a long, bony finger 
as he spoke, “nursed him, saved his life perhaps. His 
mother had deserted him — the wretch. My child — 
when one touches me on that point, one touches a 
tender point. Look here.” He took a paper out of the 
pocket of his blouse, and began reading it aloud slowly : 

“Allow Citizen Publicola Verdier to pass out of 
Paris, with his wife and child.” 

André felt his heart leap for joy. It seemed to him 
as though a door of safety had been opened for him 
and his wife suddenly. 

“ That is a passport,” he exclaimed. 

“ From the Commune, yes.” 

“A passport — well?” inquired Thorel, wonderingly. 

“Well,” returned Verdier, frowning, “I am not un- 
grateful, I hope, though hard, hard as iron. Service for 
service. There are some services one can never re- 
pay, still, the life of my little one is worth that slip of 
paper, is notit?” And now,” he continued roughly, 
“ if the citizeness will consent to play the rôle — a vil- 
lainous one, — of my wife, we could leave Paris together 
with the little one, and I could find refuge for her in 


220 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

some hut or cabin and then return to my lodgings 
again. 

“You would do that?” exclaimed André, seizing the 
unwilling hand of the Jacobin. 

“He is a good fellow after all, Publicola,” murmured 
Puyjoli to Babet, who was still too frightened to compre- 
hend what was going on about her. 

“ But yet,” exclaimed Verdier, “how to manage it? 
the passport is for Cornelia and me.” 

“Well, well, take her as your wife, away with you, 
and place her in safety,” said Thorel impatiently. 

“ And you ? ” asked Clotilde. 

“Oh, I shall live, I swear it, live to be with you 
again.” 

“ Live, live,” muttered Verdier between his teeth, 
“ ’tis easily said, but how?” And the Jacobin gazed 
coldly and searchingly into the brilliant dark eyes of the 
Girondin. He held the life of this young, handsome, 
courageous man in his great, bony hands. 

“ Listen,” he went on deliberately, “ I know you by 
your votes in the Convention. You have always voted 
as a patriot and a good citizen. You threw yourself 
unfortunately, into the Brissot faction, a faction which 
would have ruined the Republic if there had not been 
another party there strong enough and bold enough to 
save it. But, on the whole, you have shown yourself 
faithful to the Republic of which we are both citizens.” 

“ I was one of the first to proclaim it ; I hoped to 
have been one of its founders.” 

“ She bears your name,” returned Verdier with a 
glance in Clotilde’s direction, “ take this safe-conduct, 
and leave Paris with her. I do not desire to know 
whither you go. From this day I shall forget that you 


Mademoiselle de Louverchal. 221 

ever existed, and, I desire you also not to remember me. 
While you, under my name, flee from Paris, I shall re- 
main here to defend my country and fight for her. 5 * 

Thorel gazed wonderingly at this man in silence. 
He could hardly realise what had happened. Tears filled 
Clotilde’s eyes, while Babet clasped her hand and gazed 
devoutly upward. Puyjoli, in his turn, quite forgetting 
Mademoiselle de Louverchal for the moment, gazed 
reverentially at the stern features of the Jacobin. 

“Here,” exclaimed Verdier again, impatiently hold- 
ing out the passport towards André ; here, take it.” 

André took it hesitatingly, adding, “ But if at any 
time you should have need of it.” 

“For whom?” asked Verdier, in cold bitter tones, 
“ for the wife who has deserted her child and me? As 
for me — I desire nothing better than to die for the Re- 
public, and if my head should one day be demanded 
by ni}?- country, I shall not falter or stumble as I mount 
the scaffold. My blood, it is probable, will be poured 
out at the Sacrifice of the Red Mass, as that of so many 
others has already been.” 

“ The Red Mass ? ” returned Puyjoli, curiously. 

“ The Red Mass — you have never heard the expres- 
sion before, then ? ” 

“ I am from Peri — Pompadour,” replied Puyjoli. 

“ The Red Mass — it is the Mass where Sanson figures 
as the celebrant,” returned the other. 

“ And on the altar of which many an innocent victim 
is sacrificed,” André said gloomily. 

“ There were many innocent peasants oppressed, 
starved, hanged upon the roadside by our noble mas- 
ters of not very long ago.” Then, turning to André, he 
added brutally ; 


222 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ Take in y advice, and leave Paris as soon as possible. 
Join Wimpfen at Caen, if you choose, but if it be my 
fate to meet you in arms against the Republic, I shall 
have forgotten by that time the service your wife once 
did me.” 

“ My place of combat is the tribune, the council-hall 
of the Nation,” returned André. “ When France is 
free again, I shall take my place again.” 

“ She will be free when her foes and traitors are no 
more.” Then, turning to Clotilde, he added, “ Citizeness 
Thorel, you watched once at the bedside of my son ; 
promise me, if anything should happen to me, if it - is in 
your power, to succour him.” 

“ With all my heart,” she returned fervently. “ He 
shall be to me as my own.” She was about to take his 
hand, but he drew it back roughly. 

“ It is well. There is nothing more to be said. I shall 
now rejoin my men outside, with the news that Citizeness 
Thorel had already quitted this house some time before 
I entered it.” 

“ But if they should not believe you ? ” inquired Puy- 
joli. 

Verdier stared coldly at him. 

“ He is always believed who is known to have no fear 
of death.” 

“And who risks his life to save that of others,” added 
Thorel, deeply moved. 

“ Speak no more of that, but set out at once on your 
journey.” Then, turning to Puyjoli, who was standing 
near him, both hands thrust deep down into the pockets 
of his shabby riding-coat, he continued, “ and you, too, 
Citizen Martial. It is time, too, for you to quit this 
house. Citizen Pluçhe’s house has attracted the atten- 


Mademoiselle de Louverchal. 223 

tion of too many prying eyes lately, to be a safe place 
of refuge.” 

Clotilde, who in the meanwhile had been examining 
the safe-conduct, now approached Verdier, saying, 

“ Citizen, I do not think you have looked at this 
passport.” 

“Why?” 

“ Look here, you see it says, ‘ Pass Citizen Publicola 
Verdier, travelling with wife and child.’ We have no 
child. Would it not be better for the little one if you 
were to confide him to our care now , instead of waiting 
until it may be too late? You are obliged to be absent 
a great deal from him. He may be sick again. Let me 
take him. When peace is again restored to France, to 
Paris, you can reclaim your little one.” 

“ Ah, you do not know what you are doing, when 
you ask me to part from my child. But you are right 
Paris, in these days, is no place for a motherless child. 
The fresh air, the freedom of a country life, will perhaps 
bring back some colour to his pale cheeks. You are 
right, a man does not understand how to take care of a 
child. In an hour I will return here with him. The 
poor little fellow has no mother. Be a mother to him.” 

There was a rattling of the muskets on the ground 
outside, as though the men were growing impatient at 
being kept waiting so long. Becoming aware of this, 
Verdier, resuming his cold, stern aspect, which had 
been strangely softened while speaking to Clotilde, 
and nodding slightly to the company, strode toward 
the door. A moment later the squad of men, with 
Verdier at their head, had marched out of the gar- 
den and down the street. 

Now Puyjoli could change his dress and set out for 


224 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

the hôtel in the Rue Mirabeau. Just then the prompter 
entered the house, humming an air he had picked up in 
the coulisses. 

“ Why, how strange you all look ! ” 

“ And no wonder,” returned his wife, “ we are under 
the surveillance of the Sections.” 

“ Well,” returned the heroic little man, “no one can 
escape his fate.” Then, turning to Puyjoli, he added, 
“Citizen François de Neuf chateau has written a play 
for us, which has every prospect of being a great suc- 
cess.” 

“ Indeed ! ” 

“ Pamela.” 

“ I will go and see it, if I am not dead before it ap- 
pears. Is Sophie to play in it? ” 

“ I do not think so. Though the parts have not yet 
been distributed.” 

“ Pamela ? ” returned the viscount, thoughtfully, “ the 
title is a pretty one, though, after all, pretty names are 
often as deceitful as pretty faces.” 

This reflection reminding him suddenly of his visit 
to Mademoiselle Bertha, he took his leave precip- 
itately, after embracing Pluche, and imprinting more 
than one kiss of gratitude on Babet’s still fresh, smooth 
cheeks. 

On the threshold of the door he turned and looked 
back, exclaiming gaily ; 

“ Ah, I had almost forgotten to leave my regards for 
Citizen Médard. A capital fellow Citizen Médard, the 
only fault he has is that his Christian name is Maxi- 
milian. The kindest regards of the late Citizen Martial 
Plantade to him, if you please.” 

It was a beautiful day. Puyjoli drank in with 


Mademoiselle de Louverchal. 225 

eagerness and delight the balmy air of July. Com- 
pelled for so long to confinement in the house, he fairly 
revelled in the gay aspect of all around him, — the 
women in their light summer gowns and fluttering tri- 
coloured ribbons, the children who looked up into his 
handsome face with smiling, innocent glances. He 
hurried on, however ; he was anxious to reach the hôtel 
in the Rue Mirabeau. 

When he did arrive there, he found it to all appear- 
ances quite deserted. 

He hesitated. Would not his coming there place 
Bertha in still greater peril? He decided, after a 
moment’s hesitation, that he must see her. Lifting 
the ponderous knocker, he knocked loud and long. After 
a delay of some moments the door was opened slightly 
and a female head appeared in the aperture. It was 
the femme de chambre, who uttered an exclamation of 
joy at seeing him. 

Mademoiselle de Louverchal, the maid said, was 
alone with her in the hôtel. The house was quiet and 
damp as a tomb, even on this bright day in July. 
Since her father’s arrest Bertha had left the house only 
twice, once to go to Germaine’s, and once to the prison 
in the vain attempt to see her father. A letter from 
the Marquis had begged her not to make a second at- 
tempt, and cautioned her to remain concealed for the 
present. One person alone had called several times at 
the hôtel for news of M. de Puyjoli. It was Migrayon, 
the former valet of the Viscount. 

Mademoiselle de Louverchal was quite overcome 
with joy at the sight of Puyjoli. It seemed to her as 
though an angel of salvation had entered the house in 
the person of this handsome young man. Did not he 

*5 


226 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

face all and any danger with a smile ? She, in his eyes, 
was always charming, adorable, but more adorable than 
ever with her fair hair in disorder, innocent of powder, 
and her pretty eyes red with weeping. Her vome, 
formerly so gay, murmured gently, sadly : 

“Ah, how I have longed to see you.” 

Puyjoli made an effort to keep his light, rallying 
tone in replying to her. It would not do for her to see 
how perilous he really thought her situation. 

Bertha, however, seemed to have no thoughts for her- 
self, they were all for her father. How could they 
manage to set him at liberty, she inquired of Puyjoli, 
anxiously. 

It would be easier to join him in prison than to set 
him at liberty. For the present that was impossible. 
He could, if she desired, share her father’s prison with 
him ; he could not free him from that prison. Now he 
must contrive to get Bertha away. The hôtel was no 
longer a safe dwelling-place for her. But where could 
he take her ? He could think of but one place, and the 
idea of such a refuge for this young and innocent girl 
was in the highest degree distasteful to him. Still, in 
the face of such supreme danger all scruples of delicacy, 
he told himself, must give way. It was to Sophie 
Clerval’s apartment that he decided to take Bertha. 
Yet would she consent to go there ? She would, she 
must. Still, he hesitated. It was cruel, it was un- 
grateful toward Sophie. Poor Sophie, ready to fling 
herself into the flames for him. How could he ask her 
to take Mademoiselle de Louverchal under her protec- 
tion? He knew, too, that though the actress would 
willingly run any risks for him, she might refuse to 
imperil her own safety, her life even, for Bertha. Cer- 


Mademoiselle de Louverchal. 227 

tainly she would do so if she suspected a possible rival 
in Bertha. He made up his mind, however, that she 
must not be allowed to suspect this. He would ask 
Sophie to shelter Bertha as a* near and dear relative of 
his. This was not a time to be scrupulous when the 
life of the woman he adored hung in the balance. 

He bade Mademoiselle wrap herself in a dark man- 
tle, and advised her, instead of putting on her hat, to 
cover her head with one of her maid’s caps. They 
must be careful not to draw attention to themselves on 
the street. 

“ Where are you goingto take me, Viscount ? ” she in- 
quired. 

“To the house of one of my friends. To Sophie 
Clerval’s, the actress.” 

Bertha started and shook her head. 

“ Oh, no — not there.” 

“ Mademoiselle,” he inquired sternly, “ do you wish 
to save your father from the scaffold?” 

“ What a question ! ” 

“ Sophie Clerval is a good Republican. She is well 
acquainted with and well liked by citizen Fabré d’Eglan- 
tine and Romsin, the rulers of France to-day. I 
know of no other place of refuge for you. It is not 
necessary, I should think, to push aside a helping hand 
because the hand itself happens to be a beautiful one.” 

“ But she is — in — in — love, I have heard ” 

“ She may be good enough to have some esteem for 
me. All the more reason for her helping one so dear 
to me. Besides, there is no question of me at all here. 
It concerns only you and your father.” 

“ Let us go to Citizeness Clerval,” answered Bertha 
resolutely. 


22 8 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

They set out at once. On their way thither Puyjoli 
wondered anxiously what sort of a reception he and his 
charge would receive from the actress. 

“ Ugh! ” he thought, with a great feeling of self-dis- 
gust. “ Poor Sophie, how I shall have to lie to her.” 
If any other hole or corner had presented itself to his 
recollection he would most certainly have bent his steps 
thither in preference to proceeding to Sophie’s elegant 
apartment. 

When they arrived there, the actress, they were told, 
had just that moment returned from the theatre. For- 
tunately, however, for Puyjoli’s peace of mind, he was 
ignorant of the fact that she was in a furious temper, 
having been left out altogether in the distribution of 
the parts for ‘ Pamela.’ 

Leaving Bertha in the drawing-room, Puyjoli knocked 
at the door of Sophie’s boudoir. At sight of him Sophie 
burst into tears — tears of joy. A moment later, she be- 
gan to dance round and round him, laughing and clasp- 
ing her little white hands. At this, Gaston laid his 
finger on his lips, as a sign for her to be cautious, 
whispering, “ Hush, hush.” 

« Why?” 

“ I did not come by myself.” 

“ With whom, then ? The gens d'armes ? ” 

“ Nonsense, I have a lady with me — my cousin.” 

“ A cousin ! I did not know you had any cousins.” 

“ My dear child, I have a hundred at least.” 

“ But why did you bring her here ? ” 

“ Because I wish to put her in your care— under your 
protection.” 

“ My care — my protection — for your cousin — ha, ha, 
ha!” 


Mademoiselle de Louverchal. 229 

“ She could, moreover, have the benefit of your in- 
struction in ” 

“ Ta-ta-ta, what on earth do you mean ? But after 
all, what do I care ? Do you know you have not em- 
braced me yet ? ” 

She threw herself into his arms at these words and 
kissed him passionately. Puyjoli did not repulse, but 
just as little did he respond to her caresses. 

“ What is the matter with you ? ” she inquired sud- 
denly, struck by his agitated demeanour. 

“ Nothing — only I am anxious about my cousin.” 

“ Oh, your cousin. But I do not care anything at all 
about your cousin. I care only for }^ou. Where have 
you hidden yourself all these long, dreary weeks ? Ah, 
Gaston, if you only knew how many tears I have shed 
on your account.” 

“ Then you have not quite forgotten me ? ” 

“ Idiot ! ” she answered scornfully. 

“So much the worse,” thought Puyjoli. “My 
cousin’s life is in danger here in Paris,” he continued 
eagerly. 

“ So is yours.” 

“ Ah, but she is a woman. Sophie, I want to leave 
her here in your care. May I ? She can remain here 
as your relation, your companion, your pupil.” 

The actress burst into loud, shrill laughter. 

“ Are you out of your senses, Gaston ? Your cousin 
— a lady — a good girl, remain here — with me — as my 
pupil? Ah, pardon, you mean she is supposed to be 
studying for the stage, under my instruction.” 

“ Just so ; and,” continued Puyjoli, hardily, trying 
to smile, but changing colour visibly, “and while she is 
here, my dear Sophie, I am afraid we must treat each 


230 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

other more formally than we have been in the habit of 
doing.” 

“ I understand,” she returned fiercely. “ I under- 
stand you only too well.” 

“ Listen to me, dear, kind, good girl that you are, I 
must ask one more proof of your devotion to me. For- 
give me, forget me, I am not worthy of your love, So- 
phie, but protect and cherish this girl, and I shall never 
cease to love and thank you for your kindness to her.” 

“ For I shall have saved for you the life of the woman 
you love,” returned Sophie, whose eyes had grown hag- 
gard, and whose white bosom heaved storm ily as she 
concluded. “ Ah, do not lie to me. I understand very 
well what the service is you have come here to-day to ask 
of me. Parbleu ! You ask me to save the life of your 
cousin, a cousin you will marry later (if you both man- 
age to escape the guillotine) when you shall have for- 
gotten Sophie Clerval. What am I saying ? you have 
forgotten her now — forgotten at least that you ever 
loved her, though you remember well enough the poor 
fool loved — loves you — well enough to die for you . 
Ah, I know you, you aristocrats. We should be grate- 
ful, you think, to have served you as toys of an hour. 
But, though I may be ready to give my life for ^ow,why 
should I risk it for her, that you two may marry and 
laugh afterward at the poor fool of an actress, who died 
for you ? But you, do not you know that women like 
us suffer when the man we love is taken from us ? and 
by whom, pray? By a woman who rewards your devo- 
tion by a smile or a word, and thinks she has well paid 
you.” She walked rapidly up and down the room, 
tearing a lace handkerchief she held in her hands to 
shreds as she spoke. 


Mademoiselle de Louverchal. 231 

Suddenly she stopped with a wild peal of scornful, 
bitter laughter. “ Why, what a fool I am. I — a sou- 
brette, to try to play tragedy. It is not my forte at 
all. I did it execrably, did not I, Gaston? There, 
take me to your cousin. And now — am not I a good 
girl, and are you pleased with me ? ” 

“ Dear, dear Sophie,” he murmured, very much moved, 
and raising her white hand reverently to his lips. 

“ Ah, dear to you no longer, I fear, Gaston. But I — 
3 r ou see, you do what you like with me. You are so 
beautiful, your beauty has bewitched me, you — too beau- 
tiful Puyjoli. And now we will go to — your cousin .” 

When they entered the drawing-room together it was 
plain to be seen in Bertha’s glowing eyes and crimson 
cheeks that Puyjoli’s protracted interview with the 
actress had annoyed her. The welcome given her by 
Sophie, however, soon disarmed her jealousy. 

It was settled that Bertha should have an apartment 
formerly occupied by the actress’s sister, who had died 
a few months previously of consumption. 

“No one has occupied her rooms. They can be put 
in order for you at once, Mademoiselle. My sister was 
a good girl, and only sixteen when she died. And now,” 
she continued, turning toward Puyjoli, who had listened 
to her not a little affected by the kindness of heart of 
this woman he had formerly held in such slight esteem, 
“ where do you intend to go while Mademoiselle ” 

“ De Saint Alvère,” interrupted Puyjoli, giving, in 
fact, one of the titles belonging to the de Louverchal 
family. 

“ I — now that my cousin is under your kind protec- 
tion, Mademoiselle — I shall have no difficulty in hiding 
my fugitive head in some hole or corner.” 


232 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ Why not seek out your former valet, Migrayon ? 
He came here to inquire for you.” 

“ Migrayon ? He came to us also, but, though he 
said he was your servant, we were afraid to let him in, 
fearing he might be a spy.” 

“ Migrayon a spy ! Why, he is as true as steel.” 

“ Migrayon,” Sophie continued, “ left his address 
with me. He has a lodging with one of his old friends 
from Périgord. He wished me to say to you that he 
very much desired to see you, as he had news for you 
of your brother.” 

“ My brother,” returned Gaston quickly, “ then I will 
take my leave. I am tormented with anxiety about my 
poor Gérard.” 

Migrayon’s address, which Sophie gave him, was that 
of a wine-shop outside the barriers. Puyjoli walked 
rapidly in the direction of the Prés-Saint- Gcermaine, 
where the cabaret was. It was a long walk there. 

The screeching of fiddles announced the vicinity 
of the Truelle’s wine-shop. A sign with the legend, 
“ The French Guard ” printed on it, creaked dismally 
above the door. 

Under the arbours a merry, motley crowd was drink- 
ing. On the green a country-dance was being danced. 

Puyjoli, as he came nearer, could hear one of the fid- 
dlers calling out the figures of the dance as he played : 
“Forward two — Ladies’ chain — Balance, ladies turn 
— Cross — Right and left — Hands all round — ” 

“Well, in spite of the Revolution and the daily vic- 
tims of the guillotine, there are still people left in 
Paris who dance, sing, and otherwise amuse themselves,” 
thought Puyjoli. “Ah, Paris would feast and dance 
were the heavens to rain brimstone down upon her,” 


Mademoiselle de Louverchal. 233 

In an arbour near by now struck up the Marseillaise, 
and above the singing, the sound of the fiddles and the 
fiddler crying the figures of the dance, could yet be 
heard. 

He entered the wine-shop, at this hour almost de- 
serted, and inquired for Citizen Truelle. 

“That is my name,” replied a thin, elderly man, who 
was sitting at one of the wooden tables in his shirt- 
sleeves. 

“ I wish to see Citizen Migrayon.” 

Truelle called his wife to conduct the stranger to 
Citizen Migrayon’s chamber. Poor Migrayon was 
as much moved as Sophie had been at the sight 
of his former master. He had mourned for him as 
dead. 

Puyjoli, however, soon put an end to these expres- 
sions of joy by inquiring for his brother. At that, Mi- 
grayon’s face changed visibly. 

“ How can I tell you what has happened, Monsieur 
le Vicomte,” he whispered hoarsely. 

“ My brother is in prison, perhaps ? ” 

Migrayon remained silent. 

“ Wounded — in La Vendee?” 

“ No,” returned the valet, “ Monsieur le Comte never 
reached La Vendée.” 

For pity’s sake, tell me. I can bear anything better 
than this dreadful suspense.” 

“ He died — here — in Paris.” 

“ He is dead ? ” 

“ Murdered,” returned Migrayon. 

Puyjoli’s whole frame shook with emotion. He 
fastened his eyes, suddenly grown dim and haggard 
anxiously on Migrayon. 


234 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

Murdered: Monpazier murdered — the only friend 
left him in the world. His brother — his only brother. 

“ Strangled,” continued Migrayon, gazing pityingly 
on the convulsed features of his master. 

“ Strangled ! Who told you that ? ” 

“No one. I saw him dead, with my own eyes. I 
happened, by chance, to make one of the crowd on 
the morning of the third of June, when the corpse of 
Monsieur le Comte was found lying on the pavement 
in one of the alleys which run out of the Place des 
Victoires. Citizen Picoulet it was, who, with the help 
of two others, lifted up the body from the pavement.” 

“ Lifted up?”— 

“ From the pavement, and carried it into a chemist’s 
shop near by. That it was a murder, the marks of 
fingers on the throat and bruises on the chest prove 
only too surely.” 

Puyjoli listened, hardly believing his ears. His 
brother — entrapped — murdered, while he slept, most 
likely. It was too horrible ! 

“ It was on the third of June, you tell me ? ” 

N “ On the morning of the third of June.” 

And during the night of the second Gérard had set 
out to find the shop of Vincent Leroux, seeking shelter. 
The Place des Victoires is quite near the Rue du Mail. 
If that wretch — but no, Germaine assured me positively 
that my brother never came to her father’s house. It 
would have been quite impossible for Gerard to have 
visited Leroux without his daughter knowing it. And 
then, too, why should Leroux have murdered him ? ” 

Here André’s pallor, his terror on hearing Monpazier 
spoken of returned to Puyjoli’s memory. He was cer- 
tainly extremely agitated. The Girondin — he even made 


Mademoiselle de Louverchal. 235 

use of the word 44 remorse.” He had heard him — remorse 
— why should Thorel feel remorse even if a sinister fate 
had overtaken Gérard. It was on that very night, also, 
that Thorel had come alone seeking shelter from Nicholas 
Pluche. Pluche was not even aware of Monpazier’s 
existence, as it happened. At what hour had André 
gone to Pluche’s for shelter? Was it before or after 
Gérard’s murder? If André had been the one by whom 
Gerard had been done to death, or if he had had Leroux 
for his accomplice? After all, Monpazier could have 
gone to the shop, have been admitted by Leroux, 
without Germaine’s knowing of it. 44 Ah, I do not 
know what to make of it,” thought Puyjoli in despair. 

Whilst Migrayon went on to relate how he had fol- 
lowed Gérard’s body to the cemetery, where it had been 
taken, and had carefully marked the spot where it had 
been buried, through the open window came the sound 
of the voices of the revellers in the garden below, sing- 
ing the Carmagnole loudly. 

“Vive le son, 

Vive le son, 

Danser la Carmagnole, 

Vive le son, 

Du canon.” 

44 Can you show me the spot where Gérard was 
buried ? ” asked Puyjoli of Migrayon. 

44 Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte,” returned the other 
softly. 

44 And after I shall have prayed upon his grave, cost 
what it will, I will avenge his murder, if possible,” re- 
turned the other. 


236 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 


CHAPTER V. 

A DRAMA AT THE COMEDIE. 

Nicholas Plhche could not help heaving a sigh of 
relief when Puyjoli, and soon after him the Thorels, 
taking with them Verdier’s child, had left his house. 

He did not regret having shown them hospitality. 
He would do it again, if necessary ; but after all, it was 
like living over the crater of a volcano to shelter or 
harbour any person or persons denounced by the Com- 
mune. 

When the Royalist and the Girondin, who at first had 
been inclined to fly at each other’s throats, had gone, 
Babet began to be uneasy about them, and to wish they 
were under her wing once more. 

“ Who knows where they may be ? ” she inquired 
anxiously of her husband. 

“ Ah, my dear Babet, are not you rather difficult to 
please ? When they were here you were dying to get 
rid of them ; now that they are gone you wish them 
back.” 

“ But do you think the safe-conduct of Citizen Ver- 
dier will be of service to the Thorels ? ” 

“ Of course.” 

“ And the Viscount — what has become of him ? ” 

“ He will have found a shelter under Sophie Clerval’s 
wing, most probably,” 


A Drama at the Comedie. 237 

“ What a handsome young man he was,” returned 
Babet. “I never saw any one in my life before as 
beautiful.” 

“ Take care, Babet, or I shall be growing jealous. 
To confess the truth, though, I am not sorry that peace 
has once mere descended on my humble dwelling, and 
that I can again resume my duets with friend Maximi- 
lian.” 

On Médard arriving presently, the violin and flute 
set to work to attack bravely an aria of Gliick’s. 

The duet finished, the two set off to the theatre. 
Passing by Jean-Paul Marat’s house, as usual, they were 
astonished to find it surrounded by a great crowd. 
From a man who stood on the outskirts of it, they were 
told that Citizen Marat had just been murdered in his 
own house by a girl from Caen. Citizen Laurent (a 
porter) related to all who would stop to listen to him, 
that it was he who had seized the murderess and held 
her until the police came. 

The crowd around the house howled for vengeance. 

“ Down with the Girondins ! It is Brissot and his 
friends who are the authors of this deed. To the guil- 
lotine with the Federalists !" 

“ The devil,” thought Nicholas to himself as he and 
Médard pushed their way with difficulty through the 
roaring, swaying mob. “ This time Thorel’s friends and 
colleagues have got themselves into a nice mess. Now 
indeed, they are lost. It is not Marat alone whom the 
assassin has struck down, but the whole party of the 
Gironde.” 

On his return home, some hours later, he related to 
Babet that the editor of the “ Friend of the People ” 
had been killed by a girl from Normandy. Her first 


238 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

thought, like his, was of thankfulness that the Thorels 
were by this time happily out of Paris. 

In order to forget as much as possible what had hap- 
pened, Babet, carefully closing the shutters and bolting 
the door, asked her husband what had been done that 
afternoon at the Théâtre de la Nation. 

“ There was a rehearsal.” 

“ Of the new play ? ” 

“ Yes. Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded.” 

“ You told me that the author was Citizen François 
de Neufchâteau, former deputy of the Assembly in 
’91.” 

“ It is adapted from the Italian, and Neufchâteau has 
had it lying by him since ’89. But I fear this con- 
founded play ” 

“ You fear ” 

“ I say that I fear.” 

“ Are you afraid it will be hissed ? ” 

“No. I fear rather that it will be a great success.” 

“ Oh, oh, if Citizen Neufchâteau were to hear you.” 

“ I should tell him, if I had a chance, what I tell you. 
I have no fault to find with the play from a literary 
point of view, but from a political it is the devil.” 

“ I do not understand you in the least.” 

“ Well, I had better tell you the plot, and then you 
will understand me. There is a count .in it — Count 
Bonfils, who is deeply in love with Pamela, a maid in 
his household. He is so much in love with her that, 
after a struggle with himself, and as Pamela refuses to 
listen to any other than honourable proposals, he deter- 
mines to marry her. But almost at the very moment 
when he is about to give his hand to Pamela, Andrews, 
her father, acknowledges that he is not a peasant, but the 


A Drama at the Comedie. 239 

chief of a noble Scottish family, proscribed since the 
rebellion in 1745.” 

“ But,” exclaimed Babet, “ that is only a re-bash of 
Voltaire’s “Nanine.” 

“ Yes, it is Nanine, but all plays resemble one another 
in a measure. The public like it. Anything original 
would alarm and disgust them. They like to wel- 
come an old acquaintance. But you understand, Babet, 
that the tendency of Pamela is aristocratic. The per- 
sonages are all noble, lords and ladies. Even Pamela 
is only a servant in disguise. And the characters are 
English. Pamela — why, that is an English name, and 
Pamela’s father is Scotch. The hero — an Englishman.” 

Babet was silenced — convinced. If Nicholas appre- 
hended danger it was no idle apprehension. 

“ Who are the players ? ” 

“ Elsie Lange will play Pamela. She has ordered a 
hat for the part which will create a furore. Mole will 
play old Andrews. Fleury, Lord Bonfils, and Saint 
Pol, Lord Arthur, friend of Lord Bonfils.” 

“ Has Sophie Clerval a part in it ? ” 

“ No, it is lucky for her that she has not. All who 
play in the piece will probably be arrested and sent to 
prison as friends of the Girondins and Feuillants.” 

“ Pamela ” was brought out a fortnight later, on the 
first of August. The piece was a great success. The 
players were delighted. Mademoiselle Lange in her 
famous hat was dazzlingly beautiful. Behind the 
coulisses, Sophie Clerval was heard to remark, 

“No other hat will be worn now but the ‘ Pamela.’ ” 

Babet, descending from her place in the gallery to 
join her husband at the door, could not help asking if 
he did not think his fears exaggerated. She, on her 


240 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

part, was delighted with the new play. Nicholas, how- 
ever owned to still feeling anxious. 

On the evening of the second of August the play was 
denounced at the Jacobin club as being “anti-revo- 
lutionary.” 

On the fourth of August a decree was promulgated 
by the Convention, interdicting all plays from being 
brought out on the stage in Paris, whose tendencies 
were calculated to revive the former superstitious rev- 
erence for and admiration of royalty. A copy of this 
decree was posted immediately after its promulgation 
in the foyers and coulisses of the theatre. The news- 
papers attacked the managers of the theatre, in spite of 
which, however, “Pamela ” was given without molesta- 
tion until the night of the 28th of August. 

On the morning of that day, Nicholas Pluche ran 
against Charles La Bussière, who was standing before 
a stationer’s shop contemplating a picture in the show- 
window, of Marat on his death-bed, price one livre . 
Beneath it hung a portrait of Charlotte Corday, taken 
from life, as she sat writing in her prison cell, price, 
coloured, one livre ten sous. 

La Bussière, with a crowd, stood gaping in the shop- 
window, when Pluche accosted him. 

“ Ah,” exclaimed La Bussière, laughing and showing 
his white teeth ; “ then you have not yet been arrested, 
Citizen Pluche.” 

“ I ! ” 

“You and the other anti-revolutionists of the Théâtre 
de la Nation.” 

“ Hush, speak lower,” fearing La Bussière might be 
overheard by those around them. “ There is a pros- 
pect ” 


A Drama at the Comedie. 241 

“ Of your all being dragged off to prison of ‘ Pamela.’ ” 

“ Who told you so ? ” 

“ I heard it discussed in the corridors of the Hall 
of the Committee of Public Safety. Ah, you will be 
taught very soon, I fancy, that one cannot meddle 
with fire, and escape being scorched. Well, if you are 
in danger, let me know, Pluche, and I will see what I 
can do for you.” And La Bussière sauntered off again. 

Nicholas Pluche returned home very anxious. He 
found Mêdard already there, waiting to begin a duet 
with him. 

“ Ah, my friend, I have no desire for music to-day. 
When the thunderbolt is hanging over my head ” 

“ Good heavens ! What new misfortune now threat- 
ens us,” exclaimed Babet, shaking in her shoes. 

“Nothing, nothing,” returned Nicholas quickly, re- 
proaching himself for alarming her, “ only that Citizen 
Neuf chateau’s play will not be given to-night, I fancy.” 

“ And that is what you call a thunderbolt ? ” 

Yes ; pardon me, Babet, I have a bad habit of 
exaggerating, as you know.” 

To calm her and drive her fears away, he consented 
to play his duet with Médard as usual. 

That evening, just as the curtain was about to rise, 
there came an order from the Commune forbidding the 
representation. The audience was dismissed and the 
players left the stage. “ Pamela,” however, was adver- 
tised to appear again on the second of September. 

In the meantime, Neuf château made some changes in 
his drama. Pamela descended from a nobleman’s to a 
farmer’s daughter. The lord was made a squire. The 
author, too, wrote a letter to the Assembly, disclaiming 
all aristocratic proclivities, and all admiration for Eng- 
16 


242 Vicomte de Puyjoli, 

land and the English. The interdict was, in conse- 
quence, removed, and the piece was booked for the 
second of September. 

On the night of the representation a decree from the 
Assembly forbade the carrying of canes, swords or clubs 
by any of the audience. In front of the theatre at 
least a hundred carriages were drawn up. The players, 
delighted at the idea of acting before so select an audi- 
ence, were in high feather. Everything went on well 
until it came Molé’s turn to recite this couplet, 

“ The greatest coward is a persecutor, 

A brave man can afford to be tolerant.” 

At that there was a perfect storm of applause. A 
man, however, dressed in the uniform of an officer of 
the National Guard, hissed loudly and exclaimed, 

“No ! To be tolerant sometimes is to be weak ! ” 

“ Citizen,” exclaimed Fleury, the manager, advanc- 
ing toward the front of the stage, “ you are disturb- 
ing the representation.” 

“ The representation of a piece which wounds all my 
sensibilities. You are lauding England and the Eng- 
lish at the very moment when the Duke of York is 
ravaging France ! ” 

“ Yes, yes ! ” cried some. Others shouted, 

“ No, no, put him out ! ” 

“ I am Citizen Julian de Carmtan, an aide-de-camp 
from the army of the Pyrenees,” exclaimed the man in 
uniform, 44 and I refuse to listen to a eulogy on the 
government of a York.” 

« Put him out ! ” 

“ No, no ! He is right ! ” 

“ Long live 4 Pamela ’ ! ” 


A Drama at the Comédie. 


243 


“ Long live the Republic ! ” 

“ Good God ! ” thought Pluche, “ the thunderbolt 
has fallen.” - 

He could see from his box the officer being dragged 
and hustled from the theatre by some young men in 
evening dress. He could hear the shouts of Julian de 
Carmtan as he was being dragged away : — 

“1 shall appeal to the Jacobins — to the Jacobins — do 
you hear me ? ” 

“ Another piece of stupidity on the part of the man- 
ager,” thought Pluche to himself, “the theatre will 
certainly be closed to-morrow.” 

Just then, however, Molé spoke to him, 

“ Come, Pluche, the row is over. Give me the cue.” 

But on leaving the theatre that night, Pluche had to 
push himself through a group of hostile figures, and 
the next day Barère, in his gazette, announced that 
the National Theatre, which had shown itself to be 
everything else but National, was closed, and would 
remain so indefinitely. 

The players, accused of “ want of public spirit ” were 
one and all (with the exception of Molé, whose pa- 
triotism was above suspicion) arrested and sent to 
prison ; the women to Pelagie, the men to the Magde- 
lonnettes. 

Sophie Clerval, who had taken no part in 4 Pamela,’ 
was not molested. 

“Well,” said Nicholas, philosophically, on arriving at 
the theatre and seeing the notice, “ Closed until further 
notice ” ; “I shall have the more time on my hands to 
practise my duets with Maximilian,” and trotted off 
home again. 

Arrived at his house, he was surprised to find a crowd 


244 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

of excited people around the door. Among them was 
La Bussière, who on seeing Pluche, exclaimed, 

“ Do not go inside. The gens d’armes are in there, 
seeking you.” 

“ You are very kind to warn me, but I must look out 
for Babet.” So saying, he elbowed his way through 
the crowd and entered the house. 

At sight of him, Babet gave a loud scream. 

“You ! Ah, God, I sent some one to tell you not to 
come home ! ” 

“Selfish woman that you are,” exclaimed Pluche, 
putting his arm around her waist ; “ were you, then, 
going to prison without me ? ” 

Just as the gens d’armes closed around him and his 
wife to march them off, Nicholas caught a glimpse of 
his friend, Maximilian Médard, standing there, pale, 
terror-stricken, clasping his beloved fiddle convulsively 
to his heart. In a voice choked with emotion he ex- 
claimed, 

“ You — Pluche, — you ” 

Ah, my friend, the duets are over — the music is 
stilled for the present at least,” returned the other, 
smiling sadly ; then, pointing to his house, he added, 
quoting from the notice he had read a half hour before 
in the corridor of the theatre, “ Closed until further 
notice.” 


Puyjoli Seeks Thorel. 


245 


CHAPTER VI. 

PUYJOLI SEEKS THOREL. 

The summer sun of 1794 beat strongly down upon 
the heads of the inhabitants of Paris. More than ten 
months had elapsed since the arrest of the players and 
prompter of the Théâtre de la Nation. 

In December of 1793, on their presenting a petition 
to the National Assembly, some of the players deemed 
the least culpable were set at liberty by order of the 
Commune. Babet, however, remained shut up in Saint 
Pelagie, her husband at Magdelonnettes. 

The days in the meanwhile went by and the months 
too; days and months filled with bloodshed. There 
was civil war in La Vendee, there was fighting with 
the enemy on the frontiers, there were daily deaths upon 
the scaffold here in Paris. 

“ Strike terror into the hearts of traitors and enemies,’ ” 
Robespierre had commanded; — he had become all- 
powerful since the day of the fête of the Supreme Being, 
when he had marched at the head of the Convention. 
Terror under the name of the Law of the 22 Prairial 
had been voted in the Convention. 

Danton was dead — a victim of the Terror. Robes- 
pierre too, unconsciously was digging his own grave. 

During the winter and summer of this year, André 
and his wife lived hidden away in the forest Faux 
Reposes back of Montreuil, a suburb of Versailles. 


246 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

They occupied two rooms in the garret of a wood- 
cutter’s hut. André had been born in this province. 
The wood-cutter had known him as a child. The man 
lived quite alone. His wife was dead, his son a 
soldier in the Republican army. The Thorels had 
Verdier’s child with them. Clotilde grew each day 
more and more attached to him. He was in fact a 
lovely child, with dark eyes and long, golden curls. 
André was beginning, however, to grow restless in his 
hiding-place. More than once he reproached himself 
with his cowardice in lying concealed and inactive, 
while every day there came tidings of his colleagues 
who had died for their country on the scaffold or on 
the battle-field. 

One morning he could endure it no longer. 

“ I must go to Versailles,” he told his wife, 4t cost 
what it may.” 

She at first attempted to dissuade him. Finding it im- 
possible, she determined to accompany him. It seemed 
to her that if she went with him the danger threaten- 
ing him would not be so great. They wandered arm- 
in-arm down the deserted streets of Versailles. Some 
placards on the public buildings announced new vic- 
tories by the Army of the Rhine. Thorel’s heart 
leaped with joy and pride as he read of this prowess 
of his countrymen. He pressed Clotilde’s hand in his 
as he sighed : — 

“ How happy are they who with their own eyes can 
behold these triumphs of our soldiers.” 

Clotilde made haste to draw him away. They 
wandered sadly through the neglected and deserted 
gardens of the château, until they came to the Petit 
Trianon. Anything more melancholy than this ruin 


Puyjoli Seeks Thorel. 247 

of a palace built to enable a queen to play the rôle of 
dairy- maid, could not be imagined. The dairy was 
shut up ; the windmill revolved no longer ; the turf, 
once so velvety and smooth, was cut up and torn by 
the sabots of the red-capped peasants who had last 
encamped there. 

Thorel remembered having once seen Marie An- 
toinette in a chintz gown and with her fair hair unpow- 
dered, tripping lightly along these bosky alleys, a milk- 
pail in her hand. She was dead now — this queen — lying 
in an unknown grave. It seemed almost as though she 
had been dead a century. 

***** * 

Gaston de Puyjoli lay concealed in the dingy wine- 
shop on the meadow of Saint-Germaine, as Thorel in 
the wood-cutter’s hut in the wood Faux-Reposes. 

Only one thought — one longing — filled his heart, to 
the extinction of every other. To find Thorel, and call 
him to account for his brother’s murder. 

Puyjoli, assured of Bertha’s safety, went no longer 
to Sophie’s, fearing to compromise both women by 
his visits there. 

One sultry evening in June, Leroux and his daughter, 
sitting silently together, — she, pale, haggard, the ghost 
of her former self, were surprised by a visit from Puy- 
joli. 

A cry of terror escaped the girl’s lips at the sight of 
him, while her father recoiled as though confronted by 
an apparition from the grave. 

Germaine’s voice, greeting in trembling tones the 
new-comer, forced him to recover by a supreme effort 
his self-control. 

Though younger and much handsomer than his 


248 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

brother, yet Puyjoli’s voice and smile recalled vividly 
those of the murdered man. Leroux’s heart leaped 
into his throat as Puyjoli, without any preamble, be- 
gan : 

“ You understand why I have come here ? ” 

“No,” stammered the other. 

Germaine, from whose face every vestige of colour 
had flown, had arisen from her chair, and stood lean- 
ing with her back against the chimney-piece, trembling 
in every limb. 

“ I have come here to ask you about my brother.” 

“ Your brother ! ” 

“ Gérard de Monpazier was my brother. He was 
found dead, murdered, in the Place des Victoires on 
the morning after he had gone in search of your house. 
He had been directed here the night before, by André 
Thorel, the Girondin.” 

Germaine listened, stupefied, to Puyjoli’s words. 
“ Why had he come there,” she asked herself, “ to 
accuse her father of having murdered his brother ? ” 

Her father’s eyes turned gloomily in her direction as 
he answered sullenly : 

“I know nothing of your brother.” 

“ He did not come here then ? ” 

“No.” 

Puyjoli continued, almost as though speaking to 
himself : — 

“ He must have been on his way here, certainly. 
His dead body was found not far away from here, in 
an alley leading into the Place des Victoires.” 

Leroux, not looking at Puyjoli, but gazing at his 
daughter’s face as a criminal might look on the judge 
about to pass sentence of death upon him, went on to 


Puyjoli Seeks Thorel. 249 

explain that Monpazier might have been set upon and 
attacked by foot-pads on his way to the Rue du Mail. 

“ Thorel,” Puyjoli interrupted him, “ says he gave 
Gérard his card to give you, and my brother had both 
money and papers on his person, as I happen to know. 
But when Gerard’s body was picked up in the street, 
there were neither papers nor valuables upon him.” 

“ He was murdered probably for his money,” re- 
turned Leroux, with a calmness perfectly amazing to 
his daughter. 

“ What is there to prevent my believing that my 
brother was murdered by the very man who pretended 
to succour him ? Who else knew of his having a large 
sum of money upon his person ? ” 

“I do not understand,” stammered Leroux. 

“ In times like these, whom can one trust ? How 
can one tell who are one’s friends ? Gérard confided 
in and trusted Thorel. He placed his life in the other’s 
hands. What if it should be Thorel himself by whom 
Gérard met his death ? if he did not kill him, by clos- 
ing his door against his friend — by sending him to 
wander about the streets of Paris seeking shelter. Was 
not he the cause of my brother’s losing his life ? ” 

Germaine uttered a piercing cry. 

“ He suspects,” she moaned, “ he suspects André 
Thorel.” 

“ Why,” protested Leroux, “ why suspect Thorel of 
a crime he is incapable of? ” 

“Because he lied to me. He told me my brother 
was safe in your house.” 

“ He probably thought so. As I told you before, 
your brother was on the way hither.” 

“Thorel is a coward,” returned the other hotly; 


25o Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“he found a shelter for himself, but deserted his 
friend. He left him to traverse the streets of Paris 
where death lurked for him at every corner, and he is 
alive — but my brother is dead — murdered. I am, how- 
ever, searching for him, and when I find him, he shall ac- 
count to me for his base desertion of my brother, his 
friend.” 

Leroux’s blood seemed turning to ice as he listened 
to this denunciation of Thorel from the lips of his 
victim’s brother. He glanced piteously at his daugh- 
ter, who, with set, rigid features, stood there, gazing 
blankly at Puyjoli. 

She made haste to get rid of him. She could endure 
the scene no longer. She bit her lips till the blood 
ran. She was afraid she might in a moment of mad- 
ness betray her father. 

Her condition was so pitiable that Puyjoli himself 
was struck by it. Pie held out his hand in farewell to 
her. She shuddered and drew back. 

“ Have you forgotten that we were once friends ? ” 
he inquired, smiling sadly. 

“No,” she answered quickly, and laid her hand in 
his outstretched one. It was burning with fever. 

“You are not well?” he inquired anxiously, “your 
hand is burning hot.” 

“ Is it ? ” she returned indifferently, while her father 
looked at them gloomily. She had loved this man 
once, her father told himself. She would have been 
happy, could she have gone on loving him, even with- 
out hope, happy — and yet it was to assure her happi- 
ness, to insure her peace and plenty, that he had com- 
mitted a crime. 

“Ah, what torture life is to me,” he exclaimed 


Puyjoli Seeks Thorel. 251 

hoarsely, when he and his daughter were alone once 
more. “ I wish I were dead. But I will not die as a 
murderer. I am none. I did not intend to kill him. 
I did not know what I did,” he spoke more to himself 
than to her. 

She made no answer, but tottered past him out of the 
room. 

Left alone, Leroux stretched one of his brawny hands 
toward the decanter full of brandy which stood on the 
buffet. He swallowed glass after glass of the fiery liquid. 
His visage, but now so sombre, lighted up. He muttered 
to himself, “Well, what if I did kill him — the aristo- 
crat — the traitor ? Have not I kept the papers he had 
hidden away in his pistol, the pistol he would have 
killed me with, had not I strangled the life out of him 
with my hands ? I only performed an act of justice, 
justice, justice, such as Sanson performs every day on 
a batch of traitors and aristocrats. I saved Sanson 
and his assistants a job. How funny it was, though, 
to hear the brother — the handsome young ci-devant — - 
denouncing Thorel to me as his brother’s murderer. 
André Thorel a murderer — the young idiot ! ” 

Pujqoli returned to his lodgings at Truelle’s, longing 
to call André to account for his brother’s untoward 
fate ; André, who, in his seclusion in the forest Faux- 
Reposes, longed for tidings of his friend and reproached 
himself bitterly for having allowed him to go alone to 
Leroux’s. 

One July morning, Thorel, at work over his papers 
in his garret, heard the tramp of soldiers, marching 
along the road running in the direction of Versailles. 
Clotilde entered the room directly after, pale and ter- 
ror-stricken, exclaiming, 



252 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ Did you hear ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Soldiers ■” 

“A detachment of troops marching through the 
forest.” 

Verdier’s child now came running up the stair. Some 
peasants at work in the forest had told him that the 
soldiers were on the march toward Bretagne. They 
were not visible from the windows of the house, as it 
was set back some distance from the road and hidden by 
the trees. The soldiers marched along, singing the Çaira . 

Suddenly the loud voice of the captain crying, 
“ Halt ! ” shook the walls. 

“They are going to encamp here,” whispered Clo- 
tilde, with white lips. 

“ I do not think so, we are too near Versailles. It is 
simply a halt.” 

She crept closer to him, winding her arms around 
his neck. 

“ If they should come here to search for you, you 
will resist them ? ” 

“How can I? They are a hundred to one. But 
have no fear. Why should they come here? They 
are on their march to the front.” 

The shouts and loud laughter of the soldiers seemed 
now very near. Verdier's child had left the room 
again, without their perceiving it. His voice in tones 
of agony and fear was now heard. 

“ Something has happened to the child ! ” exclaimed 
André, unwinding his wife’s clinging arms and going 
towards the door. 

“ Where are you going, André ? ” she asked anx- 
iously. 


253 


Puyjoli Seeks Thorel. 

To see what has happened to the little one.” 

“ André, do not go. Let me go — if you are seen ” 

Again the cries, sharper and more agonised, were 
heard. 

“ The child is being tortured,” returned André, “ by 
those brutes. His father saved our lives, and shall 
we now allow any danger to befall his child, without 
at least trying to save him ? ” 

They found that the captain of the company had 
caught sight of the little fellow peeping through the 
trees to look at the soldiers passing by, had had him 
brought to him, and was endeavouring to make the little 
one tell where and with whom he lived in the forest. 
He had caught hold of the child’s wrists with his hands, 
and was wrenching them so brutally, that tears rolled 
down the little one’s face and cries of agony fell from 
his lips, although he still refused to answer any of the 
questions put to him. 

“ Ah, mustard-seed,” exclaimed the brute, “ you would 
rather not say ! What words are these to use to me?” 

“ You hurt me, you hurt me ! ” cried the child, try- 
ing vainly to free himself. “ You wicked, cruel man ! ” 

André stepped forward, “ Shame upon you ! ” he ex- 
claimed, white with anger, “ a soldier— and maltreat a 
child ! ” 

The man, astonished, let go his hold, and the little 
one fled to Clotilde for protection. 

“ Who are you ? ” inquired the captain, measuring 
Thorel from head to foot with a look of ferocious dis- 
dain, “ his father? ” 

“ No, but I shall not suffer you to ill-treat him.” 

“ You will not suffer me, Citizen, did you say ? ” re- 
turned the other, grinning savagely. “ Your name ? ” 


254 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“ My name does not concern you.” 

44 Who are you who hide away in the depths of this 
forest — you are probably a traitor, a spy.” 

“ Captain,” exclaimed one of the soldiers here, “ he 
is a Girondin, a member of the Convention. I have 
often seen him on the tribune of the Hall of the Con- 
vention. 

44 A Girondin ! ” returned the leader, laying his 
hand on his sword. “ The Girondins have all been de- 
nounced as traitors to the Republic months ago in the 
Convention.” 

A circle of menacing faces and burly forms now 
pressed close around Thorel, his wife and the child. And 
Thorel finding the time for all concealment was past, 
exclaimed boldly, 

“I am André Thorel — former deputy from Versailles 
to the Convention.” 

44 Denounced — proscribed ! ” resounded on all sides. 
44 Down with the Girondin ! ” 

Still, the demeanour of the man was so firm and 
courageous that many could not withhold their admi- 
ration. 

44 A brave man,” muttered the soldier who had de- 
nounced him. 

44 Well,” exclaimed the captain, with a sneer, 44 1 
shall send you back to Paris with a squad of soldiers, 
and the Convention will mete out to you the same jus- 
tice it has meted to your brother-Girondins. Sergeant, 
get twenty men, and take this man with the woman 
and child, back to Versailles.” 

44 This child is not mine,” returned Thorel. 44 He is 
the son of Publicola Verdier, president of Section L.” 

“ Don’t know him,” interrupted the captain. 


Puyjoli Seeks Thorel. 255 

“ Probably not. He is a brave man and a patriot. 
But this child must be sent back in safety to his 
father.” 

“ Rascal, do you bandy words with me ? Sergeant, 
see to your prisoners.” 

André lifted the child in his arms, and with his wife 
by his side was marched off in the direction of Ver- 
sailles. He was bare-headed, but the soldier who had 
recognised him came running after him with his hat. 

“ Forgive me, Citizen,” said the man remorsefully, 
“ my tongue ran away with me just now.” 

“ Thank you,” returned André. 

“ It is not thanks,” returned the other, “ I want, but 
pardon.” 

“ Oh, well, I forgive you,” answered André, holding 
out his hand to him. 

44 Silence in the ranks ! ” commanded the captain. 

Clotilde walked alone by her husband’s side, pale, 
rigid, oblivious to all that was going on around her. 


256 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 


CHAPTER VII. 

CITIZEN LA BUSSIERE’s PLANS. 

Since the closing of the Théâtre de la Nation, Sophie 
Clerval had been playing with her fellow-player, Mole, 
at the National Theatre in the Rue de la Loi, under 
the management of Citizeness Montansier, former direc- 
tress of the Queen’s Theatre at Versailles. 

It was a huge, wooden amphitheatre, where plays were 
acted, balls were held, and where in the spring and 
summer months, Citizen Franconi held his circus. 

Her fellow-players could not help noticing how pale, 
grave, sad almost, Sophie had grown during the last 
few months. She was in fact pining for Puyjoli — for 
Puyjoli, who did not care for her — who had never loved 
her, but who loved instead this woman whom she, So- 
phie, sheltered under her roof. This haughty, aris- 
tocratic young beauty, who obstinately persisted in com- 
mitting daily a thousand imprudences, thereby endanger- 
ing not only her own life, but that of her protectress. 

Sophie would preach patience, caution, the necessity 
of not drawing attention on herself and her father day 
after day, but in vain. She herself had resolved to 
leave the theatre where she was engaged for her former 
one, now called the Théâtre de l’Egalité. It was under 
the direction of the Section Marat, and the pieces to be 
represented there were to be patriotic, designed to 
educate the popular taste. 


Citizen la Bussière’s Plans. 257 

The walls of the hall were painted in tri-colour, statues 
of Reason, Nature, Liberty, Equality, ornamented the 
corridors and staircases. In niches were set busts of 
Marat, Jean- Jacques Rousseau, Barrère and others. 
Sophie appeared in the character of Equality in a play 
written for her by Darvigny on the 9th Messidor, year 
II, according to the placards. 

Never had she looked more beautiful, never had she 
been more enthusiastically received, but on going the 
next night to the theatre, the audience were amazed to 
hear that Sophie Clerval, beautiful Sophie, patriotic So- 
phie had been arrested the night before as she was 
leaving the playhouse. 

Sophie Clerval — arrested ! And why ? It was really 
incredible ! Who now could’ be trusted ? The actress, 
however, who played Equality, whose Republicanism 
had never been doubted, it had been discovered had 
for months past secreted in her apartment the daughter 
of a nobleman, the ci-devant Marquis de Louverchal, 
himself a prisoner at Saint Lazare. 

Sophie had, it seemed, prophesied only too truly. 
Bertha had allowed herself to be seen in the streets, 
had been followed, watched, tracked to Sophie’s dwell- 
ing, and denounced before the Section Marat. A dom- 
iciliary visit had been paid to the actress’s apartment, 
and Bertha and she carried off to prison. 

This arrest of a beautiful and favourite actress had 
fairly stupefied Paris. Gaston de Puyjoli learned of 
it the next day by means of a placard pasted up on a 
building in the suburb where he lodged. 

He at first could not believe it possible, but Migrayon, 
coming in afterwards, confirmed the truth of the report. 
Sophie and Mademoiselle de Louverchal had been 
H 


258 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

carried off to the Saint Lazare prison, the prison where 
now the ‘ suspects ’ were confined. Bertha’s father was 
there. 

Puyjoli was in despair at the thought of Bertha’s 
being in prison — Bertha ! He saw her again as she 
appeared to him on the first day he had seen her and 
fallen in love with her. Her fresh, bright face, her 
pretty, powdered head, her saucy smile. 

“ Poor, poor girl,” he sighed ; he had for some time 
back imagined that he had ceased to love her, but that 
was a mistake. He should never cease to love her — 
this charming Bertha whom he had sworn to win. 
Yes, to-day, or ten years from to-day, and the oath he 
had sworn to her in Perigueux resounded again in his 
ears — this time like the tolling of a knell. In Paris or 
in Peking — alas, a greater gulf separated them now 
than the seas which separate France from China — the 
gulf of death. Bertha dead, thought Puyjoli, with a 
shudder. Ah, if he could but throw himself between 
death and her! Well, he could try. 

He called Migrayon, and gave him money to settle 
with the Truelles, who were kind people. “ For you, 
my lad,” he added, taking off the seal ring he wore, “ take 
this as a souvenir. If you should ever be in want of 
money you ought to be able to get a good sum for this. 
It came from the cabinet of M. le Comte de Caylus, 
who was a judge of cameos.” 

Migrayon was stupefied. What did Monsieur le 
Vicomte mean by these words ? W ere they a fare- 
well ? 

“ One can say farewell when one is only going on a 
short journey, my good Migrayon, and I am going to 
the prison of Saint Lazare to catch sight ” 


Citizen la Bussière’s Plans. 259 

“ To the faubourg St. Denis? It is frightfully im- 
prudent, my lord. You wish ” 

“To see Mademoiselle de Louverchal again, my 
friend.” 

Puyjoli, as the valet well knew, was not one who 
could be persuaded to let an undertaking drop, 
which he had made up his mind to carry out. The 
man sighed and shook his head sadly, but did not 
venture a word of remonstrance. 

Puyjoli walked through the streets of Paris on his 
way to Saint Lazare like a man in a dream. His 
thoughts were far away ; away in the pleasant peaceful 
day of his life in Périgord. He awoke from his reveries 
only to find the frowning gray walls of the prison con- 
fronting him. Raising his voice, he called out to a 
sentinel standing at the gate : — ■ 

“ Let me in there.” 

“No one can pass here,” returned the man, staring 
at him. 

Puyjoli came close up to him, smiling. 

“I wish to enter the prison, my friend.” 

“Have you an order to admit you ?” inquired the 
sentinel. 

“ No” 

“ Then you cannot enter. Be off with you.” 

“ I have friends, prisoners inside there, I tell you. I 
must go in.” 

“Friends! Aie you fool enough to acknowledge 
you have friends in there ? Why, you are mad ! ” 

“He is out of his head,” said some persons, who, 
attracted by the altercation with the sentinel, had 
come up and were looking on curiously. 

“ He does not know what he is saying,” exclaimed 


2ôo Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

a woman, carrying a child in her arms. “ Poor fellow, 
fear has made him mad ! ” 

“ My friends,’* returned Puyjoli, turning round and 
bowing to them, still with a smile on his fresh, hand- 
some face, “do I look like a madman? I am only 
tired of keeping the gentlemen waiting who have done 
me the honour to denounce me months ago. I wish 
to enter the prison. I have come here to give myself 
up.” 

The crowd, growing larger every moment, seemed 
thunder-struck at Puyjoli’s calmness. 

“ It is a physician he wants, poor young man,” ex- 
claimed the woman who had spoken before. “ His 
handsome head has been turned by the ‘Terror.* ** 

“ How beautiful he is ! ” exclaimed a young girl by 
her side. “ He is like a picture ! ” 

“ Too beautiful Puyjoli,’’ muttered the Viscount, be- 
tween his clenched teeth. “ Damn it, am I to hear that 
cursed phrase under the guillotine itself, I wonder?” 
Then, raising his voice, he cried out to another sentinel 
who had come to see why a crowd had collected 
around the prison-gates, 

“ I am the Viscount de Puyjoli, ‘ suspect* a year or 
more, denounced in every Section in Paris. By arrest- 
ing me, you will be doing the Republic a service.” 
Then, as no one moved to lay a hand on him, he ex- 
claimed passionately, “ Who said that one needs only 
to be an aristocrat to be arrested in Paris ? It is a lie Î 
I am an aristocrat, a noble, the son of a noble, a scion 
of nobles, and not one of you dares lay hands on me. 

Long live the King ! Down with Robespierre and ’* 

The sentinel laid his hand on him. 

“Idiot ! ” he cried, “ Come with me.” 


Citizen la Bussière’s Plans. 261 

Puyjoli heard the heavy gates of Saint Lazare clang 
behind him, with ineffable joy. In a voice clear, reson- 
ant, joyous, he replied to the head-jailer, sitting in his 
office, who inquired his name. 

“ Gaston Armand Leon de Saint Alvêre, Viscount de 
Puyjoli.” 

The man wrote down stolidly in the great ledger 
before him. 

“ Citizen Saint-Alvère, calling himself Viscount.” 

At this very hour, Clotilde Thorel was distracted 
with grief at being separated from her husband, who 
had been shut up in prison on their arrival in Paris, 
while she, with Verdier’s child, had been allowed to go 
free. 

The week after, she had seen her husband’s name in 
the list of those condemned to death. His and Nicholas 
Pluche’s. What to do Î To whom could she now turn 
for mercy, for help for Andre. 

She determined to apply to the Committee of Public 
Safety, which held its sittings in the Tuileries. On 
her way thither she encountered La Bussière, who 
was employed there as clerk of registry. 

Clotilde, perceiving her former neighbour, and know- 
ing he held a post on the Committee, greeted him, and 
in a few hesitating words, explained her errand there, 
imploring him to aid her. 

At sight of her La Bussière, usually bold and reso- 
lute, experienced sensations strongly resembling timid- 
ity. He had never before in his wild, reckless career 
known a good woman, tender and faithful, brave and 
yet modest. “ Ah,” he thought to himself, “ if she had 
been my wife how I would have loved and cherished 
her ! ” He invited her to go with him into the garden, 


2Ô2 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

and they seated themselves on one of the benches 
beneath a chestnut tree. 

“ Citizen,' ” she began, “ I beseech you to help me. 
My husband is in prison, condemned to death.’' 

“ I know it.” 

“ Cannot you help me to save him ? ” 

“I?” exclaimed La Bussière, “for whom do you 
take me, Citizeness ? I am a clerk in the Bureau of 
the Committee. My powers are, unfortunately, very 
limited. At present I am given the task of register- 
ing the names of those imprisoned, and I have also to 
take copies of the death-warrants. I am a copyist, 
that is all.’' 

“ But you have the names of all those accused?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You know by whom they have been accused ? ” 

“ Without doubt.” 

“ Could not you at least plead the cause of those 
unjustly accused before your official superiors ? ” 

Charles La Bussière shrugged his shoulders. 

“ 1 can do nothing, nothing but give you a piece 
of advice, Citizeness. The warrants for his arrest and 
his execution have not as yet been sent to my 
bureau.” 

“ To-day, yes, but to-morrow in all probability you 
will receive them,” returned Clotilde, in despairing 
accents. 

La Bussière was penetrated to the heart by the sight 
of the anguish of this woman whom he secretly loved. 
He longed to be able to say to her : — 

“ Trust to me. I would give my life for you. To 
save your husband, I will risk my own life.” But 
prudence, common-sense restrained him from making a 


Citizen la Bussière’s Plans, 263 

promise of which he saw no prospect of fulfilment; 
he could only reiterate, sadly : 

“ I can do nothing. I am nothing.” 

Clotilde left him and returned, mad with grief, to 
her lodging. 

But a project to save Thorel and his friends, the 
players, was being evolved in La Bussière’s mind. 

There was a chance, one chance in a thousand, by 
which they might escape death. It would be in the 
highest degree dangerous, almost foolhardy, to attempt 
to set this plan into execution. La Bussière, however, 
determined to do it. 

One of his duties was to advertise in the different 
newspapers in Paris the arrests and condemnation of 
those in other cities of the different departments in the 
Provinces. 

“ And upon my word,” said La Bussière to himself, 
“I see nobody but gendarmes, and nothing but war- 
rants.” 

He made up his mind therefore, to destroy secretly 
the death-warrants of his friends. He occupied an 
office by himself. When the death-warrants were reg- 
istered by him, they were then sent on to Fouguier 
Tinville, who ordered the condemned to be taken to 
La Conciergerie, if they were not already there, and on 
the morning after being sent there, they were carried 
off to the guillotine. 

In the fantastic brain of the former actor, an obsti- 
nate idea had for some time back entered. The Re- 
publican often asked himself what gain could it be for 
the Republic to put to death a few innocent players 
and Nicholas Pluche, the former prompter of the 
theatre, La Bussière’s old neighbour. 


■264 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

44 Yes, indeed,” he thought , 44 after the blood of Dan- 
ton and that of Camille Desmoulins, of Anacharsis 
Clootz and Chaumette has flowed on the altar of Lib- 
erty, is not the sacrifice sufficient ? It is time for the 
shedding of innocent blood to cease.” But, alas, it had 
not ceased. Day after day the warrants which he 
had to register came thicker and thicker. Day after 
day he brooded over this idea, and in the night he 
lay awake, hour after hour, puzzling how he should 
carry it out. A letter which he caught sight of ac- 
cidentally one day, from Collot d’Herbois to Fouguier 
Tinville, urging him to greater zeal, spurred him on. 
It had come in a bundle of letters to the Committee 
of Safety. If this letternever reached the one to whom 
it was addressed, the players’ lives might for a time at 
least be spared. 

44 Impossible,” he decided sadly — but on reflection, 
why impossible ? The business of the Committee grew 
every day heavier. The death-warrants came thicker 
and thicker. Sanson and his assistants bitterly com- 
plained of being overworked. 

From the bundle of papers La Bussière contrived to 
extract this letter and some of the warrants without 
being discovered. He pushed them back into the 
drawer of his desk and re-tied the package carefully. 

During the night he returned to his bureau, eluding 
the one sentinel on guard, and opened the door of his 
office with the key he carried always about him. There, 
groping about in the dark, he rummaged in the drawer, 
succeeded in laying his hand on the letter and the 
death-warrants, and hid them on his person. It was 
about one in the morning when he stole from the place, 
and going to a swimming-bath on the Seine, demanded 


Citizen la Bussière’s Plans. 265 

a room in it. In the water of the bath, he soaked the 
parchments until they were reduced to a pulp and 
rolled this pulp into small balls,' which he threw out of 
the window into the Seine. O11 his way home from 
the bath he met Publicola Verdier returning from a 
meeting of the Marat Section. 

“ Ah,” exclaimed La Bussière, eagerly. “ it is a 
long time since I saw you. What are you doing ? ” 

“ Working.” 

“ Are you satisfied with the Republic yet ? ” 

“ It needs more friends like me, and it has too many 

half-hearted ones like ” 

“Whom?” 

“ Like those who regret the past, and long for a 
return to the former tyranny. From the barber on the 
corner, who sighs for noblemen’s wigs to curl and power, 
to the farmer-general and the financier who desired to 
have again the privilege of taxing and grinding down 
the poor. But, though the Red Book is, thanks to us, 
closed, in which were kept accounts of the pensions 
paid to the mistresses of kings and princes, there are 

some who would like to have it opened again ” 

“I do not think so, but the people are growing 
tired of so much bloodshed. It is time to show 
mercy ” 

“Mercy!” interrupted the Jacobin, “did the aris- 
tocrats ever show mercy to the people ? ” 

“ Is there really none you would pardon ? ” 

“Not one.” 

“ But the young, the thoughtless, those whose birth is 
their only crime.” 

“ Let them all perish,” returned the Jacobin. 

“ And you would spare none ? ” 


266 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 


“ Not one.” 

La Bussière shook his head. “Yet with my own 
eyes I saw you give your safe-conduct to Thorel.” 

“ Thorel, though a Girondin, was no aristocrat, only 
a weak patriot, and then for her sake, who saved my 
child from death. It was an act of gratitude toward 
her.” 

“ You know, I suppose, that Thorel has been arrested, 
condemned ? ” 

“Yes. My child was brought back to me by Thorel’s 
wife.” 

“ Can not you interpose, and save Thorel’s life 
again? ” 

Citizen Verdier shook his head. 

“ He dies, perhaps, to-morrow, and the blade of the 
guillotine will most probably the day after to-morrow 
cut short the cry of 4 Vive la République ’ in my own 
throat. What does it matter? Our blood will fertilize 
the soil in which the tree of liberty is planted. I pity 
Thorel ” 

“ You will not make at least one effort to save him ? ” 

“Yesterday it was possible. To-day no power on 
earth can save him. Above the power of Human Will 
is that of the Law.” 

“ But above the Law,” thought La Bussière, as 
saying farewell to Verdier, he went on his way, “there 
is Mercy.” 


Saint Lazare. 


267 


CHAPTER VIII. 

SAINT LAZARE. 

Since that terrible date of the 19th Messidor (June) 
this prison had been full to overflowing with prisoners 
of all ages, ranks, and conditions. Nobles of the ancient 
régime, Chouans, Feuillants, Girondins, soldiers, priests 
and women. Persons accused of conspiring against 
the Government, alleged spies of Pitt and the English 
Government. In this crowd, waiting in the prison ante- 
chamber of death, as it was to be to the most of the 
prisoners, certain distinctions of society still reigned. 

The nobles held themselves proudly aloof from the 
other prisoners. Many still kept up a semblance of 
their former state. Some had their days on which to 
pay and receive visits ; they conversed, made witticisms 
and epigrams on the very judges and juries who had 
condemned them. They acted plays, gave concerts. 
They did not hesitate, either, to give a mimic rep- 
resentation of an execution upon the guillotine. 

These light-hearted Frenchmen could not even take 
death seriously. 

Gaston de Puyjoli’s first thought was to seek for Ber- 
tha in this crowd. He succeeded in finding her at last, 
with her father. The Marquis, not in the least prepared 
to meet death as a philosopher, in fact not desiring at 
all to meet it, experienced something almost like pleas- 
ure at seeing Puyjoli once more. To do the Marquis 


268 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

justice, however, he thought that Gaston had come 
simply to visit him ; he had no idea they were fellow 
prisoners. Bertha, quicker of comprehension, divined 
the truth and was deeply shocked and pained at seeing 
him there. 

« Ah, Viscount,” she exclaimed mournfully, “ the 
only comfort left me was that you at least were not in 
this horrible place.” 

“Ma foi,” he returned smiling, “you have no idea 
how lonely I was outside. All my world is here, and 
you could not expect me to live outside the world, 
could you ? Oh ! ” he exclaimed, interrupting himself 
suddenly, “ there is somebody yonder whom I did not 
expect to meet here.” 

He gazed with a hard and severe look in the direction 
of a man seated on a straw-seated chair, a short distance 
off, his legs crossed, and who, quite regardless of the 
hubbub around him, was reading diligently. This ex- 
pression of severity accorded so ill with his handsome 
features that Bertha stared at him in astonishment. 

“ Vive Dieu,” said Puyjoli to himself, “it is certainly 
Citizen Thorel. Chance has this time favoured me in- 
deed,” Turning toward the Marquis and his daughter 
and forcing a smile, he added, “ I have a word to say 
to that man yonder. May I be allowed to come later 
and pay my respects to you ? ” 

“ What can you have to say to him ? ” exclaimed the 
Marquis, “ it is André Thorel, the Girondin.” 

“ I have a word to speak with him, nevertheless, but 
it will not take me long.” 

He strode up to where André was seated and laid his 
hand heavily on his shoulder. 

Thorel started as though awakening from a dream. A 


Saint Lazare. 


269 

smile illuminated his sad face as he looked up and saw 
Puyjoli standing before him. He got off his chair 
quickly, and held out both hands to the new-comer. 

“ It is written, then, that we are to meet again and 
here. I could wish that it had been anywhere else.” 

The cold, haughty look which met his own, the re- 
fusal of the hand of his former friend, filled him with 
amazement. He gazed half-wonderingly, half-pity- 
ingly at the proud, handsome face confronting him so 
sternly. Puyjoli had planted himself before Thorel in 
an attitude at once defiant and menacing. 

“ I have a word to say to you, Monsieur le Girondin,” 
he began slowly, “ I have come here to ask you what 
you have done with my brother.” 

“ Done with your brother ? ” 

“ I have no desire to waste many words on you. My 
brother was murdered. He was murdered on the very 
night he had the misfortune to encounter you in Paris.” 

“ Murdered ! Gérard ! Good God.” 

“ My brother had no other friend in all Paris besides 
you. He left me to seek shelter with you. You shut 
the door in his face.” 

“ Shut the door in his face ! Had not I to flee myself 
by night from my own house, to avoid being made a 
prisoner in it ? I sent him to a house where I knew he 
would be as safe as with me.” 

“ He never reached that house. He was found the 
next morning strangled to death in an alley. You 
were the last who saw him alive.” 

It was now quite clear to Thorel that Puyjoli’s brain 
was turned. His grief for his brother had driven him 
mad. He gazed at the young man before him with 
sad, pitying eyes. 


270 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

“I wish to know why you,” continued Puyjoli, low- 
ering his voice, but speaking in fierce, distinct tones, 
44 why you deserted my brother that night, while you 
sought alone a shelter for your cowardly head ? ” 

“ Silence ! ” returned the other, sternly, “ You do not 
know what you are saying. I send Gérard to his death ? 
I, who loved him better than my own life ? ” 

44 We shall both of us in all probability, soon be called 
to die upon the scaffold. I die innocent of any crime, 
but you will meet your just due as an assassin — of 
your friend.” 

41 Look at me,” exclaimed André, impetuously, “ look 
me full in the face, and say if I look like an assassin ? ” 
His blue eyes looked so bravely, so calmly, into the 
threatening orbs confronting them, that Puyjoli was 
shaken in his convictions in spite of himself. 

“ Is it possible that I have accused him unjustly ? ” he 
thought ; 44 he was Gêrard’s dearest friend.” 

44 Then defend yourself,” he returned, after a mo- 
ment’s hesitancy. 44 Who killed my brother? Who 
killed him, I say ? ” 

44 How can I tell ? ” returned the other, a feeling of 
angry shame burning hot within, at being called to 
defend himself from a charge at once so infamous and 
absurd. 44 There is not a patriot I know capable of the 
deed of which you accuse me. I was ignorant until you 
told me just now of Gerard’s death. I could not 
shelter him in my house, but was that my fault? You 
were there that very night. You must have seen the 
guards sent there to place me under arrest. How is it 
possible for you to accuse Clotilde’s husband and your 
brother’s friend of being a murderer, the assassin of his 
friend. There is but one way left me now to avenge 


Saint Lazare. 


2 71 

your insults, and that is to forgive them.” He turned 
away as he spoke, leaving Gaston gazing blankly after 
him. 

During the weary months following his crime, Le- 
roux and his daughter dragged on their miserable 
lives, face to face in the old house. Germaine was but 
a spectre of her former self, haggard, woe-worn ; the 
sight of her was a continued penance to the miserable 
father. For oblivion — for temporary relief from an 
avenging conscience, he fled to the brandy-bottle. His 
face was congested, his eyes bloodshot, the veins in his 
thick neck swollen. 

“ Some morning,” he would say to himself moodily, 
“ I shall be found dead in my bed, of apoplexy.” How 
he longed and hoped for such a death ! The crime of 
which he had been guilty, he told himself repeatedly, 
he had committed for his daughter’s sake, that she 
might be assured of an existence free from want ; and 
now, it appeared to him, she was dying daily before 
his eyes. Dying of horror and despair. Thin as a 
shadow, her once tall figure bent like that of an aged 
person’s, she crept about the house and shop. “ Wretch, 
this is your work ! ” he told himself. Again and again 
when alone in his chamber he put Gerard’s pistol to his 
forehead ; again and again he withdrew it. An assas- 
sin, a murderer he was none, he repeated obstinately. 
It was only justice he had done on that traitor, that 
aristocrat. He need only take these papers he had 
found concealed in Monpazier’s pistol to the Committee 
of Public Safety, and avow boldly what he had done, to be 
not only exonerated, but rewarded as a patriot, a second 
Brutus, rewarded beyond his wildest dreams. Why 
then, should he put an end to his life in a fit of remorse ? 


272 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

Ah, he knew only too well that the love of his child, 
the sole thing he had longed for in this world, had for- 
ever departed from him. She pitied, but she shrank 
from him. Every fibre, every nerve in her body recoiled 
from the contact of his guilty touch. 

Often in the depths of the night he had heard her 
weeping in her chamber. Each low, suppressed sob of 
hers was like a dagger-stroke in his heart. “ Wretch,” 
he would then apostrophize himself, “ this is your work ; 
you have blasted her sweet, innocent young life.” 

One morning at breakfast, a meal partaken of by 
them in almost unbroken silence, Leroux asked his 
daughter abruptly, 

“What would you do, where would you go if — I 
were dead ? ” 

Germaine, lifting the heavy lids of her sunken eyes, 
looked at him wonderingly. He repeated his question 
as she made no answer. 

Slowly, and as if forced by his imperious gaze against 
her will to reply, she said, 

“ If I were alone in the world, I would go as a nurse 
in the hospitals.” 

“Ah,” he exclaimed suddenly, “so you have already 
thought what you would do ? ” 

“ No, no, father,” she replied, “ never until this mo- 
ment.” 

“ Well,” he answered gloomily, “you may not have 
long to wait.” 

A coldness as of death stole over her at these ominous 
words ; her blue, trembling lips found it impossible to 
form a word, either of dissent or of entreaty. Leroux 
pushed back his chair, and, coming over to her, bent 
his head over hers. 


Saint Lazare. 


273 


“ I have a boon to ask of you.” 

“A boon?” 

“ A kiss.” 

She lifted up her white face to his and he pressed his 
burning lips to her clammy forehead. Then, taking 
her hand in both his, he murmured softly, “Adieu.” 

Germaine fell back half fainting in her chair. The 
whole room reeled. She made an effort to rise and 
follow her father, who had left the room, but her weak, 
trembling limbs refused the task. 

The next moment the sound of a shot from the shop 
below fell on her ears. With a supreme effort she 
arose, tottéred to the door and slowly descended the 
staircase. 

A light blue cloud of smoke floated slowly upward 
toward the ceiling. The smell of powder was percept- 
ible. “ He has killed himself,” she moaned. Her eyes, 
dim with tears, sought him anxiously. There, on the 
very spot in the recess where Gérard had lain, she saw 
her father’s body, prostrate on the floor. 

With a cry of love and pity, she cast herself down be- 
side him, raising his head on her arm. Her father’s 
hand, groping blindly, sought hers ; she caught it, rain- 
ing tears and kisses on it. He smiled faintly, turned 
his eyes toward her, and died. 

The pistol with which he had killed himself lay near 
him. Around the handle a piece of paper was wound. 
Unfolding it with shaking fingers, Germaine read, 

4 To whom it may concern — I tried to fight against 
ill fortune. In vain. I have come to the end of my 
resources ; I have no hope of ever retrieving my losses. 
I must die.” 

18 


274 Vicomte de Puyjolh 

Below was written, “ To my daughter — Forgive me, 
I have suffered so much, and I loved you so much. 

Vincent Leroux. 

She hid the paper away in her bosom. For hours 
she sat there alone — the head of the dead man in her lap. 
* * * * * * 

The next morning at the prison, Gaston was given a 
small package by the jailer, who said it had been left at 
the grill for him by a young woman. On opening it, he 
found it to contain his brother’s pistol, and a few 
written words from Germaine. 

“ You came to me to know what had become of your 
brother. This pistol was found among the effects of my 
dead father. Pray for him and pardon him. 

Germaine.” 

So Gérard had gone to Leroux’s and had been 
murdered by the draper, it seemed. Here, with a great 
rush of remorse, Puyjoli remembered the insults he had 
heaped on André, the true and faithful friend of Gérard. 
He went in search of the Girondin, the pistol in one 
hand. “ Poor Germaine,” he thought, divining what 
she must have suffered since that night, that dreadful 
night. Germaine, so beautiful, so good. So engrossed 
was he in his thoughts, that he fairly stumbled over 
the man he was seeking. Holding out his hands, he 
exclaimed in clear tones, loud enough to be heard by 
all around them; 

“ Citizen Thorel, I have come to beg your pardon. 
I insulted you by a wrong and unjust accusation. I beg 
you to pardon it, to forgive it if you can. My brother 


Saint Lazare. 


275 

is dead, and I too, am going to my death. The news 
came yesterday that to-morrow I am to be transferred to 
La Conciergerie. Will you, therefore, grant me your 
forgiveness before I die ? ” 

André sprang forward and threw his arms around 
the other’s neck. 

“ I have nothing to forgive. You are going to meet 
Gérard. I, in all probability, will soon follow you 
both.” 

“ Say farewell to me then, now, dear friend,” returned 
Puyjoli, “ for there is still left me another duty to per- 
form before I die.” 

Their adieus over, Puyjoli hurried to the cell of the 
Marquis de Louverchal. Bertha sat on a low chair 
there, engaged in netting. 

Puyjoli greeted them, faintly smiling. 

Monsieur le Marquis,” he began, after seating him- 
self in the only remaining chair there ; “ I have a favour 
to ask of you and Mademoiselle, the last I shall ever crave 
That the desire of my whole life, just as my life is 
ended, may be fulfilled. Let me marry Mademoiselle, 
here — and now.” 

“ What a ridiculous idea,” grumbled the Marquis, 
“a marriage in a dungeon. It is folly — madness — I 
will not consent to it.” 

“ Consent, father,” whispered Bertha, who had left 
her chair and come up to her father’s side. She held 
out her hand as she spoke to Puyjoli. He fell on his 
knees and raised it to his lips. 

Her eyes looked down on the beautiful up-turned 
face of her lover, beautiful, fresh, radiant as ever, and a 
great wave of bitterness, of self-disgust, swept over her. 
At last she saw herself as she was. She, who had 


276 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

scoffed and spurned this faithful lover — a lover of whom 
a queen herself might have been proud. The tears 
streamed down her cheeks. 

“ My love, my love,” she whispered, stooping down, 
and taking his face between her hands, she pressed kiss 
after kiss upon it, her father staring at her wonder- 
stricken. 

“ Ah,” murmured Puyjoli softly, “ you love me. What 
a pity it is that the knowledge of it comes just a little 
late.” 

Yet he was fairly beside himself with joy. His blue 
eyes sparkled through tears of happiness. The dark 
shadow of death enveloping him had no power to chill 
or lessen in any way his joy. 

“If you could know,” he whispered, “ how this 
moment makes amends for all my years of loving and 
waiting ; and now I must tell you, dear, that I had my- 
self arrested to be near you.” 

The Marquis cast up his arms and eyes heavenward at 
these words. Bertha’s tears fell faster than ever. 

“ You gave up your liberty, your life, to be near 
me ? ” 

“ My life ! My life was no life at all away from you.” 

“ Ah,” exclaimed the girl, throwing herself with a 
sudden passionate gesture upon his breast, “ do you 
know that I adore you ? ” 

A half hour afterward, Puyjoli and Bertha were 
married by a priest in her father’s cell. Two friends 
of the Marquis’s were witnesses of the marriage. Hardly 
were their names written down on the document which 
the priest had drawn up as a certificate of the marriage, 
when a hoarse voice was heard calling through the 
prison corridors, “ The ci-devant Vicomte de Puyjoli.” 


Saint Lazare. 


277 


Gaston threw back his head. 

“The devil!” he muttered, “but the death-sum- 
mons follows hard upon the marriage-vows.” 

Drawing his wife to his bosom, he pressed kiss after 
kiss upon her lips. 

“ Puyjoli, the ci-devant,” again echoed through the 
corridors. 

“ In a year — or ten, did not I vow to you, you should 
be mine? And yet you are not mine ” 

“ Puyjoli,” again the call was repeated. 

“ I am coming,” he answered. 

With a supreme effort, releasing himself from 
Bertha’s clinging arms, blind, deaf, to all about him, he 
ran stumbling from the cell. 

Again the hoarse voice called, “ The ci-devant Mar- 
quis de Louverchal.” 

Bereft of both father and husband, Bertha sank faint- 
ing into the arms of the Countess de Seillère, one of 
the witnesses to her marriage. 

At the gate of the prison a crowd was gathered, a 
crowd of condemned persons who were to be taken from 
Saint-Lazare to La Conciergerie, and thence to the guil- 
lotine. 

As Puyjoli stood there, a hand was laid on his 
shoulder, and a voice, clear, sweet, vibrant, contrasting 
oddly with the sobs, cries and groans around them, ex- 
claimed gaily : 

“Ah, good day, Viscount.” 

Turning quickly, he beheld Sophie Clerval standing 
before him. Sophie, who having suffered from indis- 
position since her imprisonment, had kept to her cell, 
and of whose presence there Puyjoli was not even 
aware. The actress was in a dressing-gown, not even 


278 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

having been given time to change her dress before leav- 
ing the prison. 

“ Gaston,” she said, in thrilling, vibrant tones, “ I 
did not know we were fellow-prisoners ; we, it seems, 
are to make the journey to the scaffold together.” 

A great rush of pity and remorse filled Puyjoli’s 
heart at the sight of her. She, so beautiful, so young, 
the darling of the populace, the woman who had loved 
him and whom he had despised, she was giving her life 
not even for him she loved (that poor comfort was 
denied her) but for her rival, her successful rival. And 
he, ingrate that he was, had quite forgotten her. He 
had even forgotten that she had been thrown into 
prison at the same time with Bertha ; her only crime 
that of having sheltered at his entreaty the woman he 
loved. He caught her hand in his and raised it de- 
voutly to his lips. 

“ Sophie,” he murmured in a heart-broken voice, 
“ forgive me. I knew not — I knew not what I did.” 

“ Forgive you,” she exclaimed with a smile almost 
divine, “ for what ? for the privilege of dying with 
you ? ” 

She stood beside him, radiant as a bride. Never had 
her eyes been brighter, her lips and cheeks more glow- 
ing. 


The Red Mass. 


279 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE RED MASS. 

Two days after their conveyance to La Conciergerie, 
Puyjoli, with Sophie, and five other condemned persons, 
were conveyed in a tumbrel to the guillotine in the 
Faubourg de la Gloire, formerly Place Louis XV. Two 
Germans suspected of being spies, an ex-officer of the 
King’s Guards, an old farmer-general, and an officer 
of the army of the Loire. This last carried his head 
high, and sang the Marseillaise as the tumbrel rattled 
noisily over the stones. 

The farmer-general, an old man of eighty, wept. 
The Marquis de Louverchal, who had shown but small 
courage in the hôtel in the Rue Mirabeau, and had 
bewailed his fate in the prison Saint-Lazare, to Puy- 
joli’s great relief, showed now a brave front. 

Sophie stood upright in the tumbrel, leaning a hand 
on Gaston’s shoulder to steady herself. 

The crowd yelled and roared at the sight of the Mar- 
quis, the King’s officer and the farmer-general. 

A cold wind blew from the northeast, presaging 
rain. The clouds hung low and threatening. 

“ What a pity the boon of a ray of sunshine is not 
vouchsafed us on this, our last day,” said Puyjoli. 
“ Eh, Marquis ? that would have made our journey a 
more comfortable one.” 

“ I 30 cold ? ” murmured the other. 


28 o 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

The Marquis was in his shirt-sleeves, his hands tied, 
as were those of all the others in the cart, except So- 
phie. His wrinkled chest was visible, blue and red 
with the cold, under his jabot of lace. His teeth chat- 
tered involuntarily. 

“ The devil,” thought Puyjoli, “ my father-in-law will 
cut a sorry enough figure in Citizen Sanson’s eyes.” 

Suddenly from the crowd around a voice fell on their 
ears, causing the blood to fly to Puyjoli’s face as though 
it had been struck suddenly. 

“ He is afraid — look how he trembles ! He is afraid 
— the old man is afraid I ” 

Sophie felt a thrill run through Puyjoli’s body at 
these words. Again the cry arose, “ Drive him fast to 
the guillotine, the coward ! Death to the poltroon ! ” 

But this shivering came, as Puyjoli knew only too 
well, from cold and not from fear. In this supreme 
moment the old man faced death with a courage not 
less than his own ; but he was old, and thinly clad, and 
the wind blew pitilessly. Puyjoli prayed with all his 
heart and soul that the journey might soon be over. 

When the cart turned off into the Faubourg Saint- 
Antoine, the dwellers there, weary of the sight of 
tumbrels and their freight, turned aside their heads. 
Onward they were driven, until the Barrière Renversée 
was reached. Here the voices of the multitude gathered 
round and about the scaffold were like the breaking 
of heavy surf upon the shore of the sea. 

The tumbrels halted. Sanson and his assistants 
helped the occupants to dismount. Puyjoli, as he de- 
scended, cast a glance of entreaty at the executioner, 
and indicated the Marquis with a slight gesture of his 
head, 


The Red Mass. 


281 


Sanson, comprehending, threw a coarse blanket over 
the shoulders of the shivering old man, wfto, thanking 
him, drew it around him with a pitiful, almost childish 
gesture of satisfaction. 

“And now,’' said Puyjoli, smiling to him, “we will 
show these canaille that we know how to die, eh, Mar- 
quis ? ” 

Sophie Clerval kept her eyes fixed on Puyjoli’s face. 
She seemed quite unconscious of her surroundings, the 
howling crowd, the tall scaffold, the executioner and 
his assistants. They waited at the foot of the scaffold. 
The first to ascend was the soldier of the Rhine. He 
mounted with a firm step. They heard him chanting 
the Marseillaise. The refrain ended — the words, “ Vive 
le Rep — ” which followed, were cut short by the descend- 
ing knife. 

“ Vive le roi ! ” cried the Marquis de Louverchal, 
putting his foot on the ladder. His glance, cold, 
stern, haughty, wandered over the turbulent, howling 
crowd. He had in dying regained the courage of his 
race. At the very moment that he was being bound to 
the plank, the Marquis caught hold of Sanson’s hand 
and pressed it gratefully, as an expression of thanks 
for his kindness of a few moments before. 

Just before mounting the ladder, Puyjoli turned 
and whispered to Sophie, “ Grant me, my dear, faithful 
friend, one more favour — the last one. Let me go 
first. Do not force me to see you die.” 

She nodded her fair head, smiling. He embraced and 
kissed her solemnly. 

“ Poor, poor Sophie,” he murmured in a voice full of 
pity. She smiled up at him radiantly, 

“ Happy Sophie,” she corrected him. 


282 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

He sprang up the ladder and stood a moment looking 
down curiously at the crowd below. As he stood there, 
the embodiment of health and beauty, the voice of one 
of the women knitting near the scaffold fell upon his 
ears. 

“ Look at that one now,” she said, jogging her com- 
panion’s elbow, “ did you ever see anyone so beautiful 
in all your life before ? ” 

“ Too beautiful Puyjoli,” he murmured bitterly, “ I 
knew that confounded phrase would dog me to the end 
of my days.” 

At the foot of the scaffold, Sophie stood, impatient. 

“ Wait for me,” she exclaimed wildly, when she 
heard the sound of the axe falling heavily upon the 
neck of her lover. 

She ascended the guillotine smiling, rosy, as she was 
used formerly to bound upon the stage. 

On the evening of this day, Charles La Bussiere, 
about to enter his lodgings, heard the public crier call- 
ing out the list of those who had been executed. He 
bought one as usual, and ran his eye rapidly over the 
names. He grew very pale when he reached the name, 
“ Sophie Clerval ” on the list. 

“ Poor Sophie,” he whispered hoarsely. He had 
thought he had destroyed her death-warrant with the 
others. It must, however, in some way have escaped 
his notice. 


The Tenth of Thermidor. 


283 


CHAPTER X. 

THE TENTH OF THERMIDOR. 

July 29, 1794. 

This was the day on which the Convention turned 
on Robespierre, leader of the Terror, and declared him 
accused, him, before whom only a day before, they had 
trembled. 

Barrère (Janus-faced as ever) made two separate 
speeches before the Convention that day. In the first 
one he applauded Robespierre as the deliverer of his 
country ; in the second he denounced him as the scourge 
and oppressor of France. Robespierre sought aid 
from the Commune., He barricaded himself in the 
Hôtel de Ville as in a fortress, and called upon his 
colleagues to defend — to die with him. In vain. The 
Sections responded but weakly to his call. The Sec- 
tion over which Verdier presided turned a deaf ear to 
their President’s appeals to them to rally round their 
Chief. They preferred, rather, to listen to Laroque’s 
timid, temporizing counsels ; Laroque, who had stolen 
Verdier’s wife from him. Verdier, at the refusal of 
the Section to come to the rescue of Robespierre, 
clapping his red bonnet on his head, withdrew from 
the club wrathfully. On his departure, Laroque was 
voted President. 


284 Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

In the Hôtel de Ville all was confusion. Robes- 
pierre seemed to have lost his head ; he gave commands 
to his followers, only in the next breath to counter- 
mand them. Barras, mounted on a white charger, was 
galloping and caracoling outside in the square. 

In the Convention, Charbot demanded that Robes- 
pierre and his “ fellow-scoundrels ” should be put to 
death. He was interrupted by the entrance of the gen- 
darme, Merda, bringing the pistol with him with which 
Robespierre had just shot himself and broken his jaw. 

By dawn of the next day Robespierre and his adher- 
ents were not only arrested, but condemned. Robes- 
pierre, bleeding from his self-inflicted wound, was 
carried in and laid upon a table in the Hall of the Com- 
mittee of Public Safety. To some one who drew near 
and pulled up his hose, which had fallen down around 
his ankles, he muttered hoarsely, 

“ Thank you, Monsieur” 

Strange to say, from that moment, the title “ Citizen ” 
fell into disuse. Hymns and pæons of thanksgiving arose 
in the prisons at the news of the -fall and execution of 
Robespierre. But blood continued to flow almost as 
freely on the guillotine as before. Now, however, it 
was the friends and sympathizers of Robespierre who 
suffered. 

On the morning of the tenth of Thermidor, Maxi- 
milian Médard, on reaching the Hôtel de Ville, found 
his entrance to his bureau barred by a sentinel. 

“ No one allowed to pass here.’ , 

Médard smiled. 

“ Pardon me, Citizen soldier, but I am employed 
here.” 

He drew out a card from his pocket as he spoke 


The Tenth of Thermidor. 


285 

and offered it to the sentinel. Some one, evidently in 
authority, came running up. 

“ Who are you?” he demanded, roughly. 

“I?” 

« Yes, you.” 

. “ I am employed ” 

“ Here by the Commune.” 

“Yes, Citizen ” 

“ Here — arrest him ! ” 

Médard was stupefied with astonishment. 

“ But ” he stammered, “ I have come here to do 

my work. I have an office here — where ” 

“ Your name ? ” interrupted the other roughly. 

“ My name ? ” 

“ Yes, your name.” 

“ It is there on my card,” returned Maximilian, more 
and more surprised at beholding himself surrounded by 
a squad of soldiers. The magistrate took the card. 

“ Oh ! ” he exclaimed, frowning, “ your name is Max- 
imilian.” 

“ Well ” 

“ You dare to call yourself Maximilian.” 

“ I had nothing to do with it. It is my name of bap- 
tism.” 

“Very well,” returned the other, “when one is af- 
flicted with a name like that, one should change it. It 
is the name of a tyrant.” 

“ What tyrant ? ” 

“ The ex-tyrant.” 

“ Ah,” returned Médard innocently, “ I thought that 
the ex-tyrant’s name was Louis.” 

The other answered furiously, “ I will show you that 
you cannot bandy words with impunity with Citizeu 


286 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

Laroque. You were in the employ of the Commune, 
your name is Maximilian, you are a traitor.” 

“ A traitor ? ” 

“ Outside of the law,” returned the other. “ Arrest 
him.” 

Accompanied by La Bussière, Clotilde went, after 
the execution of Robespierre, to the Commune, to ask 
for the release of her husband at the hands of the Pres- 
ident, Legendre. 

“ Thorel is a good patriot,” returned the former 
butcher, as he signed an order for the release. “ His 
place is here in the Convention.” 

“ There is also,” murmured La Bussière, obsequiously, 
“ a poor devil of a prompter, confined in Saint-Pelagie 
— Citizen Pluche.” 

Legendre, who seemed in high spirits, signed an order 
for Pluche’s release also. 

“We have avenged Danton,” he said, as he handed 
the warrants to La Bussière. 

“ Avenged him on whom ? ” thought La Bussière to 
himself, as he received them bowing. 

That evening in the humble dwelling of Nicholas 
Pluche, a feast was spread, at which Babet, rosy with 
joy, presided. 

The Girondin and his wife were already there. The 
whole family was awaiting the arrival of Médard, when 
La Bussière, pale and breathless, carrying Verdier’s 
child in his arms, burst in upon them. 

“ I bring you — an orphan,” he exclaimed sadly, plac- 
ing the little one in Clotilde’s outstretched arms. “I 
have just seen Verdier’s head fall by the guillotine. He 
died as a Spartan — a hero, crying with his last breath, 
• Vive la République ! ’ ” 


The Tenth of Thermidor. 287 

A silence fell on all. The room which Babet had 
made gay and bright with flowers seemed suddenly 
to grow dark and cold as an underground tomb. 

The child had clasped his arms tightly around Clo- 
tilde’s neck, who held him to her, weeping. 

“ Sit down, Citizen,” said Babet, after a silence of 
several moments, “ and dine with us.” 

“ Thank you, I am not hungry. The sight of so 
much blood has choked me. I have still another piece 
of bad tidings to communicate. Your friend Mé- 
dard ” 

“ What of him ? ” 

“ He — is dead.” 

“ Dead!” 

“Dead — on the guillotine. Condemned to death — 
because his name was — Maximilian .” 

“ Great God ! ” exclaimed Pluche, “ Médard, the 
kindest, the most guileless creature in the whole 
world ! ” 

“As for me,” continued La Bussière, “from this 
moment forth, I wash my hands of politics. The 
poor player takes up again his old rôle.” 

* * * * * * 

A few days after his visit to Pluche, La Bussière 
found himself in the cemetery of Picpus. The cemetery 
where the last victims of the Terror had been hastily 
interred. 

He carried in one hand a great bunch of roses, which 
he had brought with him to strew on Sophie’s grave, if 
he should be fortunate enough to find it among so many 
other unmarked and nameless graves. 

He was accompanied by one of the officials in charge 
of the cemetery. The man, after a scrutinizing exami- 


288 


Vicomte de Puyjoli. 

nation of the freshly-dug graves lying thick at his feet, 
pointed downward with his finger, saying briefly : 

« There.” 

“Here?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Thank yon, * and slipping a coin into the man’s 
hand, La Bussière motioned him to withdraw. 

On a grave next to the one pointed out to him, a 
woman in heavy mourning garments knelt, absorbed in 
prayer. Her black veil, thrown back, revealed a pale, 
pretty, piquant face. Becoming aware, presently, that a 
stranger was standing near her, she got up off her knees 
and was about to pass him quickly by. La Bussière, 
however, knowing that Puyjoli, the Marquis de Louver- 
chal and Sophie had been executed together and buried 
afterward in one spot, accosted her. 

“ Pardon me, but do not I see before me Mademoi- 
selle de Louverchal ? ” 

The woman, throwing back her small head, answered 
with a proud, lofty look, 

“ I am the wife, the widow, of the Vicomte de Puy- 
joli,” and, bowing slightly, she passed him with a quick, 
light step. Left alone, La Bussière strewed Sophie’s 
grave with the flowers he had brought with him. 

Was it possible she was dead ; hidden under a few 
inches of mould, this woman so young, so beautiful, so 
full of mirth and the pride of life ! Again he saw her 
sweet, winsome face, heard again her fresh, bright voice, 
her silvery, ringing laugh. 

With a lingering step and eyes full of tears, he turned 
away at last from this flower-strewn grave, over which 
small yellow butterflies were gaily fluttering. 


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